Have hung My dank and dropping weeds To the stern god of sea.

What is dark within me, illumine.

It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.

Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.

Chaos umpire sits And by decision more embroils the fray by which he reigns: next him high arbiter Chance governs all.

Where all life dies death lives.

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.