"All things have sunk in sleep. But one last verse awaits its end, baring its fangs to snarl that earthly love is but a poet's duty, while love celestial is an abbott's flesh. Whatever millstone these swift waters turn will grind the same coarse grain in this one world. For though our life may be a thing to share, who is there in this world to share our death? Man's garment gapes with holes. It can be torn by him who will, at this edge or at that. It falls to shreds, and is made whole again. Once more 'tis rent. And only the far sky, in darkness, brings the healing needle home. Sleep, John Donne, sleep. Sleep soundly, do not fret thy soul. As for thy coat, 'tis torn; all limp it hangs. But see, there from the clouds will shine that star which made thy world endure till now."
My goodness!