Exceeds Man's Might: That Dwells With The

'tis Brief, My Lord...as Woman's Love.

I Am Declined Into The Vale Of Years.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

Why, This Hath Not A Finger's Dignity.

I...kisss The Tender Inward Of Thy Hand.