There's A Black Rose Growing In Your

The Things I Have Are Nameless, Old And True; They May Not Be Named; Few May Live And Know.

O Happy, Happy Each Man Whom Predestined Fate Leads To The Holy Rite Of Hill And Mountain Worship.

Luminous, Unfearful; High-priestesses, Our Fervour Shall Banish All Evil.

Take What The Old-church Found In Mithra's Tomb, Candle And Script And Bell, Take What The New-church Spat Upon And Broke And Shattered.

We Are These People, Wistful, Ironical, Wilful, Who Have No Part In New-world Reconstruction, In The Confederacy Of Labour.