today's poem
The Hour-Glass
Ben Jonson
Do but consider this small dust,
Here running 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,
Turned to cinders by her eye?
Yes; and in death as life unblessed,
To have't expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.
Ben Jonson
Do but consider this small dust,
Here running 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,
Turned to cinders by her eye?
Yes; and in death as life unblessed,
To have't expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.