Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye.

The Hungry Sheep Look Up, And Are Not Fed, But, Swoln With Wind, And The Rank Mist They Draw, Rot Inwardly, And Foul Contagion Spread: Besides What The Grim Wolf With Privy Paw Daily Devours Apace, And Nothing Said; But That Two-handed Engine At The Door Stands Ready To Smite Once, And Smite No More.

At His Birth A Star, Unseen Before In Heaven, Proclaims Him Come.

Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself Would Stoop To Her.

Of Calling Shapes, And Beck'ning Shadows Dire, And Airy Tongues That Syllable Men's Names.

Heaven Is As The Book Of God Before Thee Set, Wherein To Read His Wondrous Works.