The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
My vegetable love will grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises ‘twere in one
To live in paradise alone.