Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show To move, but doth if th' other do. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Suth wilt thou be to me, who must Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I began.

Our critical day is not the very day of our death; but the whole course of our life.

So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss, Which sucks two souls, and vapors both away.

Art is the most passionate orgy within man's grasp.

I am a little world made cunningly.

No man is an island unto himself.

At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.