Love's Mysteries In Souls Do Grow, But

That Soul That Can Reflect Upon Itself, Consider Itself, Is More Than So.

Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.

My Face In Thine Eye, Thine In Mine Appears, And True Plain Hearts Do In The Faces Rest; Where Can We Find Two Better Hemispheres, Without Sharp North, Without Declining West? Whatever Dies, Was Not Mix'd Equally; If Our Two Loves Be One, Or, Thou And I Love So Alike, That None Do Slacken, None Can Die.

'tis The Year's Midnight, And It Is The Day's.

Our Faults Are Not Seen, But Past Us; Neither Felt, But Only In The Punishment.