When I do think my meanest line shall be

More in Time's use than my creating whole,

That future eyes more clearly shall feel me

In this inked page than in my direct soul;

When I conjecture put to make me seeing

Good readers of me in some aftertime,

Thankful to some idea of my being

That doth not even my with gone true soul rime;

An anger at the essence of the world,

That makes this thus, or thinkable this wise,

Takes my soul by the throat and makes it hurled

In nightly horrors of despaired surmise,

And I become the mere sense of a rage

That lacks the very words whose waste might 'suage.