This Is Servitude, To Serve The Unwise.

Thick As Autumnal Leaves That Strow The Brooks In Vallombrosa, Where Th' Etrurian Shades High Over-arch'd Imbower.

Thoughts That Voluntary Move Harmonious Numbers.

So May'st Thou Live, Till Like Ripe Fruit Thou Drop Into Thy Mother's Lap.

The Oracles Are Dumb, No Voice Or Hideous Hum Runs Through The Arched Roof In Words Deceiving. Apollo From His Shrine Can No More Divine, With Hollow Shriek The Steep Of Delphos Leaving. No Nightly Trance Or Breathed Spell Inspires The Pale-eyed Priest From The Prophetic Cell.

Ride The Air In Whirlwind.