Gather The Flowers, But Spare The Buds.

Let Us Roll All Our Strength, And All Our Sweetness, Up Into One Ball: And Tear Our Pleasures With Rough Strife, Through The Iron Gates Of Life. Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun Stand Still, Yet We Will Make Him Run.

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.

So Much One Man Can Do That Does Both Act And Know.

My Love Is Of A Birth As Rare As 'tis, For Object, Strange And High; It Was Begotten By Despair Upon Impossibility.

Meanwhile The Mind, From Pleasure Less, Withdraws Into Its Happiness; The Mind, That Ocean Where Each Kind Does Straight Its Own Resemblance Find; Yet It Creates, Transcending These, Far Other Worlds, And Other Seas; Annihilating All That's Made To A Green Thought In A Green Glade ... Such Was That Happy Garden-state.