Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.

Let Us Roll All Our Strength, And All Our Sweetness, Up Into One Ball: And Tear Our Pleasures With Rough Strife, Through The Iron Gates Of Life. Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun Stand Still, Yet We Will Make Him Run.

I Have A Garden Of My Own, But So With Roses Overgrown, And Lilies, That You Would It Guess To Be A Little Wilderness.

How Fit He Is To Sway That Can So Well Obey.

But At My Back I Always Hear Time's Winged Chariot Hurrying Near.

What Wondrous Life Is This I Lead! Ripe Apples Drop About My Head.