If Ever Any Beauty I Did See,

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.

When I Died Last, And, Dear, I Die As Often As From Thee I Go Though It Be But An Hour Ago, And Lovers' Hours Be Full Eternity.

I Wonder By My Troth, What Thou, And I Did, Till We Loved? Were We Not Weaned Till Then? But Sucked On Country Pleasures, Childishly? Or Snorted We In The Seven Sleepers' Den?

How Much Shall I Be Changed, Before I Am Changed!

Art Is The Most Passionate Orgy Within Man's Grasp.