Yesternight The Sun Went Hence,

More Than Kisses, Letters Mingle Souls.

But He Who Loveliness Within Hath Found, All Outward Loathes, For He Who Color Loves, And Skin, Loves But Their Oldest Clothes.

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?

It Is Too Little To Call Man A Little World; Except God, Man Is A Diminutive To Nothing.

Love's Mysteries In Souls Do Grow, But Yet The Body Is His Book.