Music, The Mosaic Of The

But At My Back I Always Hear Time's Winged Chariot Hurrying Near.

Twas Beyond A Mortal's Share To Wander Solitary There: Two Paradises 'twere In One To Live In Paradise Alone.

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

Casting The Body's Vest Aside, My Soul Into The Boughs Does Glide.

Had We But World Enough, And Time, This Coyness, Lady, Were No Crime.