We Know What We Are, But Know

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

But Thou, Contracted To Thine Own Bright Eyes, Feed'st Thy Light's Flame With Self-substantial Fuel, Making A Famine Where Abundance Lies, Thyself Thy Foe, To Thy Sweet Self Too Cruel.

Death, A Necessary End, Will Come When It Will Come

Love Is Like A Child, That Longs For Everything It Can Come By

The Undiscovered Country From Whose Bourn No Traveler Returns.