I Do Not Love A Man, Except

In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.

To Be No Part Of Any Body, Is To Be Nothing.

Poor Intricated Soul! Riddling, Perplexed, Labyrinthical Soul!

Who Ever Comes To Shroud Me, Do Not Harm Nor Question Much That Subtle Wreath Of Hair, Which Crowns My Arm; The Mystery, The Sign You Must Not Touch, For 'tis My Outward Soul, Viceroy To That, Which Then To Heaven Being Gone, Will Leave This To Control, And Keep These Limbs, Her Provinces, From Dissolution.

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