Poetry ⚜️

The Hourglass

Do but consider this small dust

Here running in the glass,

By atoms moved;

Could you believe that the body was Of one that loved?

And in his mistress’ flame, playing like a fly,

Are they turned to cinders by her eye?

Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,

To haven’t, expressed,

Even ashes of lovers find no rest.