Our Proper Bliss Depends On What We

Nor Public Flame, Nor Private, Dares To Shine; Nor Human Spark Is Left, Nor Glimpse Divine! Lo! Thy Dread Empire, Chaos! Is Restored; Light Dies Before Thy Uncreating Word: Thy Hand, Great Anarch! Lets The Curtain Fall; And Universal Darkness Buries All.

Those Oft Are Stratagems Which Errors Seem Nor Is It Homer Nods, But We That Dream.

No More The Mounting Larks, While Daphne Sings, Shall, List'ning, In Mid-air Suspend Their Wings.

Offend Her, And She Knows Not To Forgive; Oblige Her, And She'll Hate You While You Live.

Never Find Fault With The Absent.