At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow

Sleep Is Pain's Easiest Salve

Now God Comes To Thee, Not As In The Dawning Of The Day, Not As In The Bud Of The Spring, But As The Sun At Noon To Illustrate All Shadows, As The Sheaves In Harvest, To Fill All Penuries, All Occasions Invite His Mercies, And All Times Are His Seasons.

Love Is A Growing, Or Full Constant Light; And His First Minute, After Noon, Is Night.

...whatever Dies Was Not Mixed Equally, If Our Two Loves Be One Or Thou And I Love So Alike That None Can Slacken, None Can Die.

All Mankind Is One Volume. When One Man Dies, A Chapter Is Not Torn Out Of The Book, But Translated Into A Better Language. And Every Chapter Must Be Translated. God Employs Several Translators; Some Pieces Are Translated By Age, Some By Sickness, Some By War, Some By Justice. But God's Hand Shall Bind Up All Our Scattered Leaves Again For That Library Where Every Book Shall Live Open To One Another