Gather The Flowers, But Spare The Buds.

My Mind Was Once The True Survey Of All These Meadows Fresh And Gay; And In The Greenness Of The Grass Did See Its Hopes As In A Glass.

Ye Country Comets, That Portend No War, Nor Prince's Funeral, Shining Unto No Higher End Than To Presage The Grasses Fall. . . .

As Lines, So Loves Oblique, May Well Themselves In Every Angle Greet; But Ours, So Truly Parallel, Though Infinite, Can Never Meet.

And Yonder All Before Us Lie Deserts Of Vast Eternity.

Thus, Though We Cannot Make Our Sun Stand Still, Yet We Will Make Him Run