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Poem by John Donne
For the first twenty years since yesterday I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away; For forty more I fed on favors past, And forty on hopes that thou wouldst they might last. Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two, A thousand, I did neither think nor do, Or not divide, all being one thought of you, Or in a thousand more forgot that too. Yet call not this long life, but think that I Am, by being dead, immortal. Can ghosts die?
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