Strike when thou wilt, the hour of rest, but let my last days be my best.
The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.
Who knows most, doubts most.
'Tis only when they spring to Heaven that angels reveal themselves to you.
Was there nought better than to enjoy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?
God is the perfect poet.