Men Have Conceived A Twofold

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.

Let Me Arrest Thy Thoughts, Wonder With Me, Why Ploughing, Building, Ruling And The Rest, Or Most Of Those Arts, Whence Our Lives Are Blessed, By Cursed Cain's Race Invented Be, And Blessed Seth Vexed Us With Astronomy.

'tis The Year's Midnight, And It Is The Day's.

I Long To Talk With Some Old Lover's Ghost, Who Died Before The God Of Love Was Born.

Let Man's Soul Be A Sphere, And Then, In This, The Intelligence That Moves, Devotion Is.