7.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 4.47
7.
Conceive a whisper certified thine ear,
Some deity above thy shoulder bending,
That thou must leave thine earthly summit here,
And all thy many matters put to ending;
And say to-morrow ’twere, or the next morrow,
Appointed for thine expedition brave,
Thou begging the later day with cries and sorrow;
Wert not thou then indeed a sorry knave?
Then reason: For beauty’s sake be ’t not my song
To traverse years, but this day to live stoutly;
For beauty hangeth not upon how long
I look, but in what way and how devoutly.
Grandeur ’s not bulk, naught long that ends at all;
That now I live, this sole doth me appall.
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