13. His Poetry His Pillar
Only a little moreI have to write:Then I’ll give o’er,And bid the world good-night.
’Tis but a flying minute,That I must stay,Or linger in it:And then I must away.
O Time, that cut’st down all,And scarce leav’st hereMemorialOf any men that were;
—How many lie forgotIn vaults beneath,And piece-meal rotWithout a fame in death?
Behold this living stoneI rear for me,Ne’er to be thrownDown, envious Time, by thee.
Pillars let some set upIf so they please;Here is my hope,And my Pyramides.