God Employs Several Translators; Some

So In A Voice, So In A Shapeless Flame, Angels Affect Us Often.

Who Ever Comes To Shroud Me, Do Not Harm Nor Question Much That Subtle Wreath Of Hair, Which Crowns My Arm; The Mystery, The Sign You Must Not Touch, For 'tis My Outward Soul, Viceroy To That, Which Then To Heaven Being Gone, Will Leave This To Control, And Keep These Limbs, Her Provinces, From Dissolution.

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

Nature Hath No Goal Though She Hath Law.

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