Be Thine Own Palace, Or The World's

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.

If Every Gnat That Flies Were An Archangel, All That Could But Tell Me That There Is A God; And The Poorest Worm That Creeps Tells Me That.

Our Two Souls Therefore, Which Are One, Though I Must Go, Endure Not Yet A Breach, But An Expansion, Like Gold To Airy Thinness Beat. If They Be Two, They Are Two So As Stiff Twin Compasses Are Two; Thy Soul, The Fixed Foot, Makes No Show To Move, But Doth If Th' Other Do. And Though It In The Center Sit, Yet When The Other Far Doth Roam, It Leans And Hearkens After It, And Grows Erect, As That Comes Home. Suth Wilt Thou Be To Me, Who Must Like Th' Other Foot, Obliquely Run; Thy Firmness Makes My Circle Just, And Makes Me End Where I Began.

If I Lose At Play, I Blaspheme; If My Fellow Loses, He Blasphemes. So, God Is Always The Loser.

For Love All Love Of Other Sights Controls And Makes One Little Room An Everywhere