The Psalms Foretell What I, What Any

Sweetest Love, I Do Not Go, For Weariness Of Thee, Nor In Hope The World Can Show A Fitter Love For Me; But Since That I Must Die At Last, 'tis Best, To Use My Self In Jest Thus By Feign'd Deaths To Die.

We Give Each Other A Smile With A Future In It

Since You Would Save None Of Me, I Bury Some Of You.

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels, And Arise, Arise From Death, You Numberless Infinities Of Souls **** All Whom War, Dearth, Age, Agues, Tyrannies, Despair, Law, Chance, Hath Slain.

The Heavens Rejoice In Motion, Why Should I Abjure My So Much Loved Variety.