So Much One Man Can Do That

As Lines, So Loves Oblique, May Well Themselves In Every Angle Greet; But Ours, So Truly Parallel, Though Infinite, Can Never Meet.

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.

The Grave's A Fine And Private Place, But None, I Think, Do There Embrace.

And Now, When I Have Summed Up All My Store, Thinking (so I Myself Deceive) So Rich A Chaplet Thence To Weave As Never Yet The King Of Glory Wore, Alas! I Find The Serpent Old, That, Twining In His Speckled Breast, About The Flowers Disguised Does Fold With Wreaths Of Fame And Interest.

What Wondrous Life Is This I Lead! Ripe Apples Drop About My Head.