A Drop Of Ink May Make A

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse -- Borne Away With Every Breath!

Maidens, Like Moths, Are Ever Caught, By Glare, And Mammon Wins His Way Where Seraphs Might Despair.

To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet.

Earth! Render Back From Out Thy Breast A Remnant Of Our Spartan Dead! Of The Three Hundred Grant But Three, To Make A New Thermopylæ!

In Hope To Merit Heaven By Making Earth A Hell.