But If, As Morning Rises, Dreams Are

Not One Drop Of Blood Is Left Inside My Veins That Does Not Throb: I Recognize Signs Of The Ancient Flame.

Be As A Tower Firmly Set; Shakes Not Its Top For Any Blast That Blows.

Justice Does Not Descend From Its Own Pinnacle.

Love With Delight Discourses In My Mindupon My Lady's Admirable Gifts...beyond The Range Of Human Intellect.

Here We Find The Moat Of Thieves. And Just As A Lizard, With A Quick, Slick Slither, Flicks Across The Highway From Hedge To Hedge, Fleeter Than A Flash, In The Battering Dog-day Weather, A Fiery Little Monster, Livid, In A Rage, Black As Any Peppercorn, Came And Made A Dart At The Guts Of The Others, And Leaping To Engage One Of The Pair, It Pierced Him At The Part Through Which We First Draw Food; Then Loosed Its Grip And Fell Before Him, Outstretched And Apart.