O How Feeble Is Man's

Love Is A Growing, Or Full Constant Light; And His First Minute, After Noon, Is Night.

We Can Die By It, If Not Live By Love, And If Unfit For Tombs And Hearse Our Legend Be, It Will Be Fit For Verse; And If No Peace Of Chronicle We Prove, We'll Build In Sonnet Pretty Rooms; As Well A Well Wrought Urne Becomes The Greatest Ashes, As Half-acre Tombs.

No Spring Nor Summer Beauty Hath Such Grace As I Have Seen In One Autumnal Face.

Doth Not A Man Die Even In His Birth? The Breaking Of Prison Is Death, And What Is Our Birth, But A Breaking Of Prison?

Death Is An Ascension To A Better Library.