Sleep Knits Up The Raveled Sleeve Of

The Wind-shak'd Surge, With High And Monstrous Main, Seems To Cast Water On The Burning Bear, And Quench The Guards Of The Ever-fixed Pole.

My Soul Is In The Sky.

He Hath Borne Himself Beyond The Promise Of His Age, Doing, In The Figure Of A Lamb, The Feats Of A Lion.

Though She Be But Little, She Is Fierce!

Grace Me No Grace, Nor Uncle Me No Uncle.