The poem
Only a little more I have to write: Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night.
'Tis but a flying minute, That I must stay, Or linger in it: And then I must away.
O Time, that cut'st down all, And scarce leav'st here Memorial Of any men that were;
--How many lie forgot In vaults beneath, And piece-meal rot Without a fame in death?
Behold this living stone I rear for me, Ne'er to be thrown Down, envious Time, by thee.
Pillars let some set up If so they please; Here is my hope, And my Pyramides.