The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy

Here Feel We But The Penalty Of Adam, The Seasons' Difference, As The Icy Fang And Churlish Chiding Of The Winter's Wind, Which, When It Bites And Blows Upon My Body, Even Till I Shrink With Cold, I Smile.

What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless Death.

But I Will Be, A Bridegroom In My Death, And Run Into't As To A Lover's Bed.

My Grief Lies All Within, And These External Manners Of Lament Are Merely Shadows To The Unseen Grief That Swells With Silence In The Tortured Soul.

If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness, Did Lay Siege To It, Making It Momentary As A Sound, Swift As A Shadow, Short As Any Dream, Brief As The Lightning In The Collied Night That, In A Spleen, Unfolds Both Heaven And Earth, And Ere A Man Hath Power To Say 'behold!' The Jaws Of Darkness Do Devour It Up; So Quick Bright Things Come To Confusion.