Annihilating All That's Made, To

Let Us Roll All Our Strength, And All Our Sweetness, Up Into One Ball: And Tear Our Pleasures With Rough Strife, Through The Iron Gates Of Life. Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun Stand Still, Yet We Will Make Him Run.

And Now, When I Have Summed Up All My Store, Thinking (so I Myself Deceive) So Rich A Chaplet Thence To Weave As Never Yet The King Of Glory Wore, Alas! I Find The Serpent Old, That, Twining In His Speckled Breast, About The Flowers Disguised Does Fold With Wreaths Of Fame And Interest.

Self-preservation, Nature's First Great Law, All The Creatures, Except Man, Doth Awe.

Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun Stand Still, Yet We Will Make Him Run

How Could Such Sweet And Wholesome Hours Be Reckoned, But In Herbs And Flowers?