Poems (Cromwell)/The Mould
THE MOULD
No doubt this active will, So bravely steeped in sun, This will has vanquished Death And foiled oblivion.
But this indifferent clay, This fine, experienced hand So quiet, and these thoughts That all unfinished stand,
Feel death as though it were A shadowy caress; And win and wear a frail Archaic wistfulness.