Nothing speaks our grief so well as to speak nothing.

Hark! She is called, the parting hour is come. Take thy farewell, poor world! Heaven must go home. . . .

Eyes that displace the neighbor diamond, and outface that sunshine by their own sweet grace.

Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers play, Yet long by the absence of the day.

A pillow for thee will I bring,Stuffed with down of angel's wing.

Locked up from mortal eye in shady leaves of destiny.

Heaven's great artillery.