The Computation

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?