Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst

In Heaven It Is Always Autumn.

Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.

Our Faults Are Not Seen, But Past Us; Neither Felt, But Only In The Punishment.

I Would Not That Death Should Take Me Asleep. I Would Not Have Him Merely Seize Me, And Only Declare Me To Be Dead, But Win Me, And Overcome Me. When I Must Shipwreck, I Would Do It In A Sea, Where Mine Impotency Might Have Some Excuse; Not In A Sullen Weedy Lake, Where I Could Not Have So Much As Exercise For My Swimming.

If I Dream I Have You, I Have You, For All Our Joys Are But Fantastical.