Who can mourn what time has stripped bare And left standing with an empty purse? If you cannot breed sighs for fleas, by time's char Defaced, and drained, weep not for me, nor curse 5 That my descending bier, like the locust, Must hibernate some days in winking earth. My long shadow still scuttles on the crust In these crabbed figures you now rehearse; As long as men use some ounce of breath for speech 10 My weight will not be all in bones dispersed, But may by their moist utterance some white heaven reach. All things in all things somewhat mingle; Death, whose wreath is thorns, but compounds the tangle.
From the collection "XXX Sonnets"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.