TO MY DEAREST FRIEND

When I am dead you'll write - I know you will -

A thoughtful sonnet on my early death,

In which, stating that life but wearieth,

You'll notice how I lie pale, cold, and still.

This in the quatrains, which likewise you'll fill

With some reflections on how soon goes breath

And how the cold and heavy earth beneath

There is an end to living, good or ill.

After this, in the tercets, you will say

That death's a mystery, that nought doth stay,

Perhaps that immortality is true.

Then you will sign and put the date to it.

And, having read again the sonnet, you

Will be content, seeing it is well writ.