Be Thine Own Palace, Or The World's

Here Lies A She Sun, And A He Moon There; She Gives The Best Light To His Sphere; Or Each Is Both, And All, And So They Unto One Another Nothing Owe; And Yet They Do, But Are So Just And Rich In That Coin Which They Pay, That Neither Would, Nor Needs Forbear, Nor Stay; Neither Desires To Be Spared Nor To Spare. They Quickly Pay Their Debt, And Then Take No Acquittances, But Pay Again; They Pay, They Give, They Lend, And So Let Fall No Such Occasion To Be Liberal. More Truth, More Courage In These Two Do Shine, Than All Thy Turtles Have And Sparrows, Valentine.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

No Man Is An Island, Entire Of Itself; Every Man Is A Piece Of The Continent, A Part Of The Main. If A Clod Be Washed Away By The Sea, Europe Is The Less, As Well As If A Promontory Were, As Well As If A Manor Of Thy Friend's Or Of Thine Own Were: Any Man's Death Diminishes Me, Because I Am Involved In Mankind, And Therefore Never Send To Know For Whom The Bells Tolls; It Tolls For Thee.

If We Consider Eternity, Into That Time Never Entered; Eternity Is Not An Everlasting Flux Of Time, But Time Is As A Short Parenthesis In A Long Period; And Eternity Had Been The Same As It Is, Though Time Had Never Been.

And What Is So Intricate, So Entangling As Death? Who Ever Got Out Of A Winding Sheet?