Consider this small dust here running in the glass, By atoms moved;
Could you believe that this the body was Of one that loved?
And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly, Turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.
Describe what you're looking for in as much detail as you'd like.
Our AI reads your request and finds the best matching books for you.
Popular searches:
Join 2 million readers and get unlimited free ebooks