Sport, That Wrinkled Care Derides, And Laughter

Tears Such As Angels Weep.

Lethe, The River Of Oblivion, Rolls His Watery Labyrinth, Which Whoso Drinks Forgets Both Joy And Grief.

The Hungry Sheep Look Up, And Are Not Fed, But, Swoln With Wind, And The Rank Mist They Draw, Rot Inwardly, And Foul Contagion Spread: Besides What The Grim Wolf With Privy Paw Daily Devours Apace, And Nothing Said; But That Two-handed Engine At The Door Stands Ready To Smite Once, And Smite No More.

What Am I Pondering, You Ask? So Help Me God, Immortality.

Or Bid The Soul Of Orpheus Sing Such Notes As, Warbled To The String, Drew Iron Tears Down Pluto's Cheek.