Not To Know Me Argues Yourselves Unknown.

Oft, On A Plat Of Rising Ground, I Hear The Far-off Curfew Sound Over Some Wide-watered Shore, Swinging Low With Sullen Roar.

Come Knit Hands, And Beat The Ground In A Light Fantastic Round

And May At Last My Weary Age Find Out The Peaceful Hermitage, The Hairy Gown And Mossy Cell, Where I May Sit And Rightly Spell Of Every Star That Heaven Doth Shew, And Every Herb That Sips The Dew, Till Old Experience To Attain To Something Like Prophetic Strain.

What Can 'scape The Eye Of God, All-seeing, Or Deceive His Heart. Omniscient!

In Naked Beauty Most Adorned.