Music, the mosaic of the air.
What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head.
Ye country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses fall. . . .
Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime.
He nothing common did, or mean, / Upon that memorable scene, / But with his keener eye / The axe's edge did try.
Annihilating all that's made, To a green thought in a green shade.