There Is Plenty Of Time To Sleep

Report Me And My Cause Aright.

My Will Enkindled By Mine Eyes And Ears, Two Traded Pilots 'twixt The Dangerous Shores Of Will And Judgment.

Nothing Teems But Hateful Docks, Rough Thistles, Kecksies, Burs, Losing Both Beauty And Utility.

Who Soars Too Near The Sun, With Golden Wings, Melts Them.

Gold--what Can It Not Do, And Undo?