Send Home My Long Strayed Eyes To

For I Am Every Dead Thing In Whom Love Wrought New Alchemy For His Art Did Express A Quintessence Even From Nothingness, From Dull Privations, And Lean Emptiness He Ruined Me, And I Am Re-begot Of Absence, Darkness, Death; Things Which Are Not.

To Know And Feel All This And Not Have The Words To Express It Makes A Human A Grave Of His Own Thoughts.

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

And When A Whirl-winde Hath Blowne The Dust Of The Churchyard Into The Church, And Man Sweeps Out The Dust Of The Church Into The Church-yard, Who Will Undertake To Sift Those Dusts Again, And To Pronounce, This Is The Patrician, This Is The Noble Flower, And This The Yeomanly, This The Plebian Bran.

I Call Not That Virginity A Virtue, Which Resideth Onely In The Bodies Integrity; Much Less If It Be With A Purpose Of Perpetually Keeping It: For Then It Is A Most Inhumane Vice. - But I Call That Virginity A Virtue Which Is Willing And Desirous To Yield It Self Upon Honest And Lawfull Terms, When Just Reason Requireth; And Until Then, Is Kept With A Modest Chastity Of Body And Mind.