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

True and false fears let us refrain, Let us love nobly, and live, and add again Years and years unto years, till we attain To write threescore ; this is the second of our reign.

I did best when I had least truth for my subjects.

Without outward declarations, who can conclude an inward love?

Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were

We can die by it, if not live by love, And if unfit for tombs and hearse Our legend be, it will be fit for verse; And if no peace of chronicle we prove, We'll build in sonnet pretty rooms; As well a well wrought urne becomes The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs.

I shall not live 'till I see God; and when I have seen Him, I shall never die.