God Bless Thee; And Put Meekness In

To Unpathed Waters, Undreamed Shores.

We Cannot All Be Masters, Nor All Masters Cannot Be Truly Followed.

Time Doth Transfix The Flourish Set On Youth And Delves The Parallels In Beauty's Brow.

Thus Die I, Thus, Thus, Thus. Now Am I Dead, Now Am I Fled; My Soul Is In The Sky: Tongue, Lose Thy Light; Moon Take Thy Flight. Now Die, Die, Die, Die, Die.

For Who So Firm That Cannot Be Seduced?