Every Ruler Is Harsh Whose Laws Is

The Moving Light, Rejoicing In Its Strength, Sped From The Pyre Of Pine, And Urged Its Way, In Golden Glory, Like Some Strange New Sun.

The Seed Of Mortals Broods O'er Passing Things, And Hath Nought Surer Than The Smoke-cloud's Shadow.

Oh, It Is Easy For The One Who Stands Outside The Prison-wall Of Pain To Exhort And Teach The One Who Suffers.

There Is No Sickness Worse For Me Than Words That To Be Kind Must Lie.

Know Not To Revere Human Things Too Much.