Go, Grieving Rimes Of Mine, To That

Gold, Silver, Jewels, Purple Garments, Houses Built Of Marble, Groomed Estates, Pious Paintings, Caparisoned Steeds, And Other Things Of This Kind Offer A Mutable And Superficial Pleasure; Books Give Delight To The Very Marrow Of One's Bones. They Speak To Us, Consult With Us, And Join With Us In A Living And Intense Intimacy.

Go, Grieving Rimes Of Mine, To That Hard Stone Whereunder Lies My Darling, Lies My Dear, And Cry To Her To Speak From Heaven's Sphere.

Often Have I Wondered With Much Curiosity As To Our Coming Into This World And What Will Follow Our Departure.

When The Poet Died His Cat Was Put To Death And Mummified.

Death Had His Grudge Against Me, And He Got Up In The Way, Like An Armed Robber, With A Pike In His Hand.