The Most Peerless Piece Of Earth, I

O Jest Unseen, Inscrutable, Invisible, As A Nose On A Man's Face, Or A Weathercock On A Steeple.

Grief Fills The Room Up Of My Absent Child, Lies In His Bed, Walks Up And Down With Me, Puts On His Pretty Look, Repeats His Words, Remembers Me Of His Gracious Parts, Stuffs Out His Vacant Garments With His Form

Your Face Is A Book, Where Men May Read Strange Matters.

The Bird That Hath Been Limed In A Bush, With Trembling Wings Misdoubteth Every Bush.

Every Why Hath A Wherefore.