In Every Sorrowing Soul I Pour'd Delight,

By Turns The Nine Delight To Sing

Not At All Similar Are The Race Of The Immortal Gods And The Race Of Men Who Walk Upon The Earth.

And Here I Am Using My Own Lungs Like A Sucker.

The Wine Urges Me On, The Bewitching Wine, Which Sets Even A Wise Man To Singing And To Laughing Gently And Rouses Him Up To Dance And Brings Forth Words Which Were Better Unspoken.

He Knew The Things That Were And The Things That Would Be And The Things That Had Been Before.