Oft from new truths, and new phrase, new doubts grow, As strange attire aliens the men we know.
Women are like the arts, forced unto none, Open to all searchers, unprized, if unknown.
Friends are ourselves.
A mathematical point is the most indivisble and unique thing which art can present.
I will not look upon the quickening sun, But straight her beauty to my sense shall run; The air shall note her soft, the fire most pure; Water suggest her clear, and the earth sure; Time shall not lose our passages.
For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.