Of all complexions the culled sovereignty Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek, Where several worthies make one dignity, Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek.
Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat; Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best; Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
But another thing I know is this — we can’t steer ourselves out of this crisis by heading in the same, disastrous direction. We can’t change direction with a new driver who wants to follow the same old map. And that’s what this election is all about.