Come, my friends Tis not too late to seek a newer world Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?

Through the ages one increasing purpose runs.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.