To Roam Giddily, And Be Everywhere But

No Spring Nor Summer Beauty Hath Such Grace As I Have Seen In One Autumnal Face.

Death Is An Ascension To A Better Library.

I Will Not Look Upon The Quickening Sun, But Straight Her Beauty To My Sense Shall Run; The Air Shall Note Her Soft, The Fire Most Pure; Water Suggest Her Clear, And The Earth Sure; Time Shall Not Lose Our Passages.

Send Home My Long Strayed Eyes To Me, Which (oh) Too Long Have Dwelt On Thee.

How Imperfect Is All Our Knowledge!