The Sun To Me Is

Be Lowly Wise: Think Only What Concerns Thee And Thy Being.

The Rising World Of Waters Dark And Deep.

Tears Such As Angels Weep.

I Cannot Praise A Fugitive And Cloistered Virtue, Unexercised And Unbreathed, That Never Sallies Out And Sees Her Adversary, But Slinks Out Of The Race Where That Immortal Garland Is To Be Run For, Not Without Dust And Heat.

And Now The Herald Lark Left His Ground-nest, High Tow'ring To Descry The Morn's Approach, And Greet Her With His Song.