Barnes Are Blessings.

The Fringed Curtains Of Thine Eye Advance, And Say What Thou Seest Yond.

O, Speak Again, Bright Angel! For Thou Art As Glorious To This Night, Being O'er My Head As Is A Winged Messenger Of Heaven

We Go To Gain A Little Patch Of Ground That Hath In It No Profit But The Name.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

One Whom The Music Of His Own Vain Tongue Doth Ravish Like Enchanting Harmony.