Lifted Up So High I Disdained Subjection,

Him That Yon Soars On Golden Wing, Guiding The Fiery-wheelèd Throne, The Cherub Contemplation.

So May'st Thou Live, Till Like Ripe Fruit Thou Drop Into Thy Mother's Lap.

A Beardless Cynic Is The Shame Of Nature.

To Be Weak Is Miserable, Doing Or Suffering.

Sabrina Fair, Listen Where Thou Art Sitting Under The Glassy, Cool, Translucent Wave, In Twisted Braids Of Lilies Knitting The Loose Train Of Thy Amber-dropping Hair.