So Much One Man Can Do That

But Fate Does Iron Wedges Drive, And Always Crowds Itself Betwixt.

And Now, When I Have Summed Up All My Store, Thinking (so I Myself Deceive) So Rich A Chaplet Thence To Weave As Never Yet The King Of Glory Wore, Alas! I Find The Serpent Old, That, Twining In His Speckled Breast, About The Flowers Disguised Does Fold With Wreaths Of Fame And Interest.

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

Among The Blind The One-eyed Blinkard Reigns

See How The Orient Dew, Shed From The Bosom Of The Morn Into The Blowing Roses, Yet Careless Of Its Mansion New; For The Clear Region Where 'twas Born Round In Its Self Encloses: And In Its Little Globes Extent, Frames As It Can Its Native Element.