The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen Arrows

But Love That Comes Too Late, Like A Remorseful Pardon Slowly Carried, To The Great Sender Turns A Sour Offense, Crying, 'that's Good That's Gone.

Love Is A Spirit All Compact Of Fire.

Madam, You Have Bereft Me Of All Words, Only My Blood Speaks To You In My Veins.

To You Your Father Should Be As A God.

Let Me Say Amen Betimes Lest The Devil Cross My Prayer, For Here He Comes In The Likeness Of A Jew.