The Deep Of Night Is

Do You Set Down Your Name In The Scroll Of Youth, That Are Written Down Old With All The Characters Of Age?

And In The Morn And Liquid Dew Of Youth, Contagious Blastments Are Are Most Imminent.

O, A Kiss Long As My Exile, Sweet As My Revenge! Now, By The Jealous Queen Of Heaven, That Kiss I Carried From Thee, Dear, And My True Lip Hath Virgined It E'er Since.

Pause Awhile, And Let My Counsel Sway You.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.