'tis The Year's Midnight, And It Is

I Long To Talk With Some Old Lover's Ghost, Who Died Before The God Of Love Was Born.

O Lord, Never Suffer Us To Think That We Can Stand By Ourselves, And Not Need Thee.

Men Are Sponges, Which, To Pour Out, Receive; Who Know False Play, Rather Than Lose, Deceive. For In Best Understandings Sin Began, Angels Sinn'd First, Then Devils, And Then Man. Only Perchance Beasts Sin Not ; Wretched We Are Beasts In All But White Integrity.

I Wonder, By My Troth, What Thou And I Did, Till We Lov'd?

Christ Beats His Drum, But He Does Not Press Men; Christ Is Served With Voluntaries.