Man Hath Weaved Out A

No Man Is An Island Unto Himself.

Yet Nothing Can To Nothing Fall, Nor Any Place Be Empty Quite; Therefore I Think My Breast Hath All Those Pieces Still, Though They Be Not Unite; And Now, As Broken Glasses Show A Hundred Lesser Faces, So My Rags Of Heart Can Like, Wish, And Adore, But After One Such Love, Can Love No More.

Death Be Not Proud, Though Some Have Called Thee Mighty And Dreadful, For Thou Art Not So. For, Those, Whom Thou Think'st Thou Dost Overthrow. Die Not, Poor Death, Nor Yet Canst Thou Kill Me.

Without Outward Declarations, Who Can Conclude An Inward Love?

Let Not Thy Divining Heart Forethink Me Any Ill; Destiny May Take Thy Part, And May Thy Fears Fulfill.