I've Written This To Keep From Crying.

I Cling Unto The Burning Æthyr Like Lucifer That Fell Through The Abyss, And By The Fury Of His Flight Kindled The Air. And I Am Belial, For Having Seen The Rose Upon Thy Breast, I Have Denied God. And I Am Satan! I Am Satan! I Am Cast Out Upon A Burning Crag! And The Sea Boils About The Desolation Thereof. And Already The Vultures Gather, And Feast Upon My Flesh.

It Is The Mark Of The Mind Untrained To Take Its Own Processes As Valid For All Men, And Its Own Judgments For Absolute Truth.

I Was In The Death Struggle With Self: God And Satan Fought For My Soul Those Three Long Hours. God Conquered — Now I Have Only One Doubt Left — Which Of The Twain Was God?

The Sot Drinks, And Is Drunken: The Coward Drinks Not, And Shivers: The Wise Man, Brave And Free, Drinks, And Gives Glory To The Most High God.

Tell The Truth, But Lead So Improbable A Life That The Truth Will Never Be Believed.