Filled With Her Love, May I Be

Full Nakedness! All My Joys Are Due To Thee, As Souls Unbodied, Bodies Unclothed Must Be, To Taste Whole Joys.

Man Hath Weaved Out A Net, And This Net Throwne Upon The Heavens, And Now They Are His Own.

As States Subsist In Part By Keeping Their Weaknesses From Being Known, So Is It The Quiet Of Families To Have Their Chancery And Their Parliament Within Doors, And To Compose And Determine All Emergent Differences There.

Licence My Roving Hands, And Let Them Go Before, Behind, Between, Above, Below.

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