Sonnet CLXXXVI:
Some man will one day tell a passing friend
That I am dead; and he who hears the word
Will smile, look sad, or twitter like a bird,
Of gold and lands, and how they all descend.
Well, be it so! I would not have my end
Sadden the empty faces of the herd;
Nor have their shallows more profoundly stirred
By me than others who before me wend.
Of all our griefs, the sorrow o’er the grave
Is shortest lived, and easiest to cheer;
For endless woe, a heart of hope must have.
But wilt not thou, in some far future year—
From thee alone this strangest boon I crave—
