Thou Lump Of Foul Deformity!

Hanging And Wiving Goes By Destiny.

Alack, The Night Comes On, And The Bleak Winds Do Sorely Ruffle; For Many Miles About There's Scarce A Bush.

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves; The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament.

Let's Meet As Little As We Can

My Grief Lies All Within, And These External Manners Of Lament Are Merely Shadows To The Unseen Grief That Swells With Silence In The Tortured Soul.