I have outlived my life, and linger on, Knowing myself the ghost of one that was. Come, kindly death, and let my flesh (being grass) Nourish some beast's sad life when I am gone. What joy is left in all I look upon? I cannot sin, it wearies me. Alas! I loathe the laggard moments as they pass; I tire of all but swift oblivion. Yet, if all power to taste the dear deceit Be not outworn and perished utterly; If it could be, then surely it were sweet-- I go down on my knees and pray: O God, Send me some last illusion, ere I be A clod--perhaps at rest--within a clod.
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