Man Hath Weaved Out A Net, And

Licence My Roving Hands, And Let Them Go Before, Behind, Between, Above, Below.

I Will Not Look Upon The Quickening Sun, But Straight Her Beauty To My Sense Shall Run; The Air Shall Note Her Soft, The Fire Most Pure; Water Suggest Her Clear, And The Earth Sure; Time Shall Not Lose Our Passages.

Busy Old Fool, Unruly Sun, Why Dost Thou Thus Through Windows And Through Curtains Call On Us? Must To Thy Motions Lovers Seasons Run?

When I Died Last, And, Dear, I Die As Often As From Thee I Go Though It Be But An Hour Ago, And Lovers' Hours Be Full Eternity.

The Day Breaks Not, It Is My Heart.