What If This Present Were The World's

Love Built On Beauty, Soon As Beauty, Dies.

How Imperfect Is All Our Knowledge!

The Psalms Foretell What I, What Any Shall Do And Suffer And Say.

'tis The Year's Midnight, And It Is The Day's.

Whilst My Physicians By Their Love Are Grown Cosmographers, And I Their Map, Who Lie Flat On This Bed.