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Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, . . . Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.: Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
: Holy Sonnets
Love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining Poetry.
Licence my roving hands, and let them go,
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land.