Locked up from mortal eye in shady leaves of destiny.
Heaven's great artillery.
A pillow for thee will I bring,Stuffed with down of angel's wing.
Hark! She is called, the parting hour is come. Take thy farewell, poor world! Heaven must go home. . . .
Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers play, Yet long by the absence of the day.
And when life's sweet fable ends, soul and body part like friends; no quarrels, murmurs, no delay; a kiss, a sigh, and so away.