I Love You More Than Word Can

The Time Is Out Of Joint : O Cursed Spite, That Ever I Was Born To Set It Right!

Sleep Knits Up The Raveled Sleeve Of Care.

For Murder, Though It Have No Tongue, Will Speak With Most Miraculous Organ.

Though Death Be Poor, It Ends A Mortal Woe.

Fear No More The Heat O' Th' Sun Nor The Furious Winters' Rages; Thou Thy Worldly Task Hast Done, Home Art Gone, And Ta'en Thy Wages. Golden Lads And Girls All Must, As Chimney-sweepers, Come To Dust.