The Computation

For the first twenty years since yesterday
                 I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away;
           For forty more I fed on favors past,
              And forty on hopes that thou wouldst they might last.
                   Tears drowned 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?