Sonnet 74

But be contented: when that fell arrest

Without all bail shall carry me away,

My life hath in this line some interest,

Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.

When thou reviewest this, thou dost review

The very part was consecrate to thee.

The earth can have but earth, which is his due;

My spirit is thine, the better part of me.

So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,

The prey of worms, my body being dead:

The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife,

Too base of thee to be rememberèd.

The worth of that, is that which it contains,

And that is this, and this with thee remains.

But take some comfort when that last arrest

Is made for which there is no bail.

My life still has some stake in the rest

Of this poem, which rises like a sail.

When you reread this, you read the words

That were consecrated to you.

My body may be picked over by birds,

But my soul remains with you.

You’ve lost only the least of life,

The cheapest thing, the body.

It was always vulnerable—to any knife—

And is not worth the memory.

What it had, it had inside,

And made this poem, where you reside.