Annihilating All That's Made, To A Green

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.

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

Now Let Us Sport Us While We May; And Now, Like Amorous Birds Of Prey, Rather At Once Our Time Devour, Than Languish In His Slow-chapped Power.

Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.

As Lines, So Loves Oblique, May Well Themselves In Every Angle Greet; But Ours, So Truly Parallel, Though Infinite, Can Never Meet.