While thus he threw his Elbow round, Depopulating all the Ground, And, with his whistling Sythe, does cut Each stroke between the Earth and Root, The edged Stele by careless chance Did into his own Ankle glance; And there among the Grass fell down, by his own Sythe, the Mower mown.

How should I avoid to be her slave, Whose subtle art invisibly can wreath My fetters of the very air I breath?

The world in all doth but two nations bear - The good, the bad; and these mixed everywhere.

She with her eyes my heart does bind, She with her voice might captivate my mind.

'If you make one mistake, it's half a day out with the undertaker.'

Sometimes there is relief, sometimes there is new inner energy, and one stands up after it; till at last, someday, one perhaps doesn't stand up any more, que s…

Fate sits on these dark battlements and frowns, And as the portal opens to receive me, A voice in hollow murmurs through the courts Tells of a nameless deed.