Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And guilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
William SHAKESPEARE
if i believe in death be sure of this it is
because you have loved me, moon and sunset stars and flowers gold creshendo and silver muting
of seatides i trusted not, one night when in my fingers
drooped your shining body when my heart sang between your perfect breasts
darkness and beauty of stars was on my mouth petals danced against my eyes and down
the singing reaches of my soul spoke the green--
greeting pale departing irrevocable sea i knew thee death.
and when i have offered up each fragrant night,when all my days shall have before a certain
face become white perfume only,
from the ashes then thou wilt rise and thou wilt come to her and brush
the mischief from her eyes and fold her mouth the new flower with
thy unimaginable wings,where dwells the breath of all persisting stars
