Hills Peep O'er Hills, And Alps On

Authors, Like Coins, Grow Dear As They Grow Old.

How Glowing Guilt Exalts The Keen Delight!

Satire Or Sense, Alas! Can Sporus Feel? Who Breaks A Butterfly Upon A Wheel?

Nor Public Flame, Nor Private, Dares To Shine; Nor Human Spark Is Left, Nor Glimpse Divine! Lo! Thy Dread Empire, Chaos! Is Restored; Light Dies Before Thy Uncreating Word: Thy Hand, Great Anarch! Lets The Curtain Fall; And Universal Darkness Buries All.

This Long Disease, My Life.