Page:Poems (IA poemsthomrich).pdf/43
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31
So flaps my helpless sail,
Bellying with neither gale,
Of Heaven
Nor Orcus even.
Bellying with neither gale,
Of Heaven
Nor Orcus even.
Life is a coquetry
Of Death, which wearies me,
Too sure
Of the amour;
Of Death, which wearies me,
Too sure
Of the amour;
A tiring-room where I
Death's divers garments try,
Till fit
Some fashion sit.
Death's divers garments try,
Till fit
Some fashion sit.
It seemeth me too much
I do rehearse for such
A mean
And single scene.
I do rehearse for such
A mean
And single scene.
The sandy glass hence bear—
Antique remembrancer;
My veins
Do spare its pains.
Antique remembrancer;
My veins
Do spare its pains.
With secret sympathy
My thoughts repeat in me
Infirm
The turn o' the worm
My thoughts repeat in me
Infirm
The turn o' the worm