Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I

I Knew The Poor, I Knew The Hideous Death They Die, When Famine Lays Its Bleak Hand On The Door; I Knew The Rich, Sated With Merriment, Who Yet Are Sad.

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.

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

Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward Me To Learn Of Love.

Pompeii Has Nothing To Teach Us, We Know Crack Of Volcanic Fissure, Slow Flow Of Terrible Lava, Pressure On Heart, Lungs, The Brain About To Burst Its Brittle Case (what The Skull Can Endure!)