Poor Intricated Soul! Riddling, Perplexed, Labyrinthical Soul!

Die Not, Poore Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.

For Love All Love Of Other Sights Controls And Makes One Little Room An Everywhere

Doubt Wisely; In Strange Way To Stand Inquiring Right, Is Not To Stray; To Sleep, Or Run Wrong, Is.

Yesternight The Sun Went Hence, And Yet Is Here Today.

God Himself Took A Day To Rest In, And A Good Man's Grave Is His Sabbath.