Poem: The Hourglass.

hour glass

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 it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

                                                             — Ben Johnson.

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