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No worst, there is none
Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring
Comforter, where, where is your comforting

None other fame mine unambitious Muse Affected ever but t'eternize thee;
All other honors do my hopes refuse,
Which meaner priz'd and momentary be
For God forbid I should my papers blot With mercenary lines, with servile pen,

None is
Here along this way but I,
This autumn evening
The first day of the year:thoughts come - and there is loneliness;the autumn dusk is here