And Yonder All Before Us Lie Deserts

My Vegetable Love Should Grow Vaster Than Empires, And More Slow.

Among The Blind The One-eyed Blinkard Reigns

Ye Country Comets, That Portend No War, Nor Prince's Funeral, Shining Unto No Higher End Than To Presage The Grasses Fall. . . .

Let Us Roll All Our Strength, And All Our Sweetness, Up Into One Ball: And Tear Our Pleasures With Rough Strife, Through The Iron Gates Of Life. Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun Stand Still, Yet We Will Make Him Run.

See How The Orient Dew, Shed From The Bosom Of The Morn Into The Blowing Roses, Yet Careless Of Its Mansion New; For The Clear Region Where 'twas Born Round In Its Self Encloses: And In Its Little Globes Extent, Frames As It Can Its Native Element.