How Fit He Is To Sway That

My Love Is Of A Birth As Rare As 'tis, For Object, Strange And High; It Was Begotten By Despair Upon Impossibility.

And Yonder All Before Us Lie Deserts Of Vast Eternity.

Meanwhile The Mind, From Pleasure Less, Withdraws Into Its Happiness; The Mind, That Ocean Where Each Kind Does Straight Its Own Resemblance Find; Yet It Creates, Transcending These, Far Other Worlds, And Other Seas; Annihilating All That's Made To A Green Thought In A Green Glade ... Such Was That Happy Garden-state.

My Vegetable Love Should Grow Vaster Than Empires, And More Slow.

The Grave's A Fine And Private Place, But None, I Think, Do There Embrace.