This Is A Sickness Rooted And Inherent

Still To The Sufferer Comes, As Due From God, A Glory That To Suffering Owes Its Birth.

I Say You Must Not Win An Unjust Case By Oaths.

Watchful Are The Gods Of All Hands With Slaughter Stained. The Black Furies Wait, And When A Man Has Grown By Luck, Not Justice, Great, With Sudden Overturn Of Chance They Wear Him To A Shade, And, Cast Down To Perdition, Who Shall Save Him?

For In The Voyage Of The Heart, There Is A Freight Of Hatred, And The Wind Of Wrath Blows Shrill.

With Our Own Feathers, Not By Others' Hands, Are We Now Smitten.