Keep Us, Lord, So Awake In The

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

Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls; It Tolls For Thee

I Will Not Look Upon The Quickening Sun, But Straight Her Beauty To My Sense Shall Run; The Air Shall Note Her Soft, The Fire Most Pure; Water Suggest Her Clear, And The Earth Sure; Time Shall Not Lose Our Passages.

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto None, Open To All Searchers, Unprized, If Unknown.