Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/315

 Be so much blest as to descry A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world—like thine, My little world! That fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls' bliss: then we shall rise And view ourselves with clearer eyes In that calm region where no night Can hide us from each other's sight. Meantime thou hast her, earth: much good May my harm do thee! Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living I loved best. Be kind to her, and prithee look Thou write into thy Doomsday book Each parcel of this rarity Which in thy casket shrined doth lie, As thou wilt answer Him that lent— Not gave—thee my dear monument. So close the ground, and 'bout her shade Black curtains draw: my bride is laid. Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted! My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake: Till age, or grief, or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves; and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.