Music, the mosaic of the air.
The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
He hangs in shades the orange bright, / Like golden lamps in a green night.
The mind, that ocean where each kind / Does straight its own resemblance find; / Yet it creates, transcending these, / Far other worlds, and other seas, / Annihilating all that's made / To a green thought in a green shade.
I would / Love you ten years before the flood, / And you should if you please refuse / Till the conversion of the Jews; / My vegetable love should grow / Vaster than empires and more slow.
Earth cannot show so brave a sight, / As when a single soul does fence / The batteries of alluring sense / And Heaven views it with delight.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun / Stand still, yet we will make him run.