'tis The Year's Midnight, And

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

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.

As He That Fears God Fears Nothing Else, So He That Sees God Sees Everything Else.

On A Huge Hill, Cragged, And Steep, Truth Stands, And Hee That Will Reach Her, About Must, And About Must Goo.

What If This Present Were The World's Last Night?