A bride, before a "Good-night" could be said, Should vanish from her clothes into her bed, As souls from bodies steal, and are not spied. But now she's laid; what though she be? Yet there are more delays, for where is he? He comes and passeth through sphere after sphere; First her sheets, then her arms, then anywhere. Let not this day, then, but this night be thine; Thy day was but the eve to this, O Valentine.
John DonneMan hath weaved out a net, and this net throwne upon the Heavens, and now they are his own.
John DonneNever start with tomorrow to reach eternity. Eternity is not being reached by small steps.
John Donne