I See Through My Eyes, Not With

Desperate Remorse Swallows The Present In A Quenchless Rage.

For Everything Exists And Not One Sigh Nor Smile Nor Tear, One Hair Nor Particle Of Dust, Not One Can Pass Away.

O Thou Who Passest Through Our Valleys In Thy Strength, Curb Thy Fierce Steeds, Allay The Heat That Flames From Their Large Nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft Pitchest Here Thy Golden Tent, And Oft Beneath Our Oaks Hast Slept, While We Beheld With Joy Thy Ruddy Limbs And Flourishing Hair.

The Fields From Islington To Marybone, To Primrose Hill And Saint John's Wood, Were Builded Over With Pillars Of Gold; And There Jerusalem's Pillars Stood.

Where There Is Money There Is No Art.