The Computation

by John Donne

For my first twenty years, since yesterday,

　　 I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away;

　　For forty more I fed on favours past,

　　 And forty on hopes that thou wouldst they might last;

　　Tears drown'd 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?