There is in every miracle a silent chiding of the world, and a tacit reprehension of them who require, or who need miracles.

That thou remember them, some claim as debt; I think it mercy, if thou wilt forget.

But he who loveliness within Hath found, all outward loathes, For he who color loves, and skin, Loves but their oldest clothes.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls **** All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.

The Phoenix riddle hath more wit By us, we two being one, are it. So to one neutral thing both sexes fit, We die and rise the same, and prove Mysterious by this love.

As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no.

All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain.