I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.

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.

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

And Dare Love That, And Say So Too, And Forget The He And She.

I Wonder By My Troth, What Thou, And I Did, Till We Loved? Were We Not Weaned Till Then? But Sucked On Country Pleasures, Childishly? Or Snorted We In The Seven Sleepers' Den?

I Observe The Physician With The Same Diligence As The Disease.