Consider the small dust, here in the glass,
By atoms moved:
Could you believe that this the body was
Of one that loved;
And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly,
Was turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.
from Immortal Poems of the English Language (Oscar Williams)
ReplyDeleteon the subject of epitaphs
I like the idea of things being miniature but restless. Maybe the idea of "resting in peace" is overrated. The peace sounds good, but I'm not entirely sold on the resting.