Good Strong Thick Stupefying Incense-smoke!

Over My Head His Arm He Flung, Against The World.

At Last Awake From Life, That Insane Dream We Take For Waking Now.

That Great Brow And The Spirit-small Hand Propping It.

What Of Soul Was Left, I Wonder, When The Kissing Had To Stop?

Truth Is Within Ourselves; It Takes No Rise From Outward Things, Whate'er You May Believe. There Is An Inmost Centre In Us All, Where Truth Abides In Fulness; And Around, Wall Upon Wall, The Gross Flesh Hems It In, This Perfect, Clear Perception-which Is Truth. A Baffling And Perverting Carnal Mesh Binds It, And Makes All Error: And To Know Rather Consists In Opening Out A Way Whence The Imprisoned Splendour May Escape, Than In Effecting Entry For A Light Supposed To Be Without.