Death is an ascension to a better library.
Dull sublunary lovers' love (Whose soul is sense) cannot admit Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it.
And to 'scape stormy days, I choose an everlasting night.
I long to talk with some old lover's ghost, Who died before the god of love was born.
Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.
There is in every miracle a silent chiding of the world, and a tacit reprehension of them who require, or who need miracles.