I Go, I Go, Look How I

The Stroke Of Death Is As A Lover's Pinch, Which Hurts And Is Desired.

No Stony Bulwark Can Resist The Love, And Love Dares What Anyone Can Love.

And This, Our Life, Exempt From Public Haunt, Finds Tongues In Trees, Books In The Running Brooks, Sermons In Stones, And Good In Everything.

Let Me Confess That We Two Must Be Twain, Although Our Undivided Loves Are One.

Every Thing That Grows / Holds In Perfection But A Little Moment.