Yesternight The Sun Went Hence, And Yet

There Is In Every Miracle A Silent Chiding Of The World, And A Tacit Reprehension Of Them Who Require, Or Who Need Miracles.

Filled With Her Love, May I Be Rather Grown Mad With Much Heart, Than Idiot With None.

To Know And Feel All This And Not Have The Words To Express It Makes A Human A Grave Of His Own Thoughts.

That Subtle Knot Which Makes Us Man So Must Pure Lovers Souls Descend T Affections, And To Faculties, Which Sense May Reach And Apprehend, Else A Great Prince In Prison Lies.

My Love Though Silly Is More Brave.