The Worst Of Slaves Is He Whom

But Somewhere, Beyond Space And Time, Is Wetter Water, Slimier Slime! And There (they Trust) There Swimmeth One Who Swam Ere Rivers Were Begun, Immense Of Fishy Form And Mind, Squamous Omnipotent, And Kind.

Oh! Death Will Find Me, Long Before I Tire Of Watching For You; And Swing Me Suddenly Into The Shade And Loneliness And Mire Of The Last Land!

And In My Flower-beds, I Think, Smile The Carnation And The Pink.

Blow Out, You Bugles, Over The Rich Dead! There's None Of These So Lonely And Poor Of Old, But, Dying, Has Made Us Rarer Gifts Than Gold.

The Worst Of Slaves Is He Whom Passion Rules.