by John Donne
For my first twenty years, since yesterday
I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away;
For forty more I fed on favours past,
Ánd forty on hopes that thou wouldst they might last;
Tears drown'd one hundred, and sighs blew out two;
A thousand, I did neither think nor do,
Or not divide, all being one thought of you;
Or in a thousand more, forgot that too.
Yet call not this long life; but think that I
Am, by being dead, immortal; can ghosts die?