Monuments, Like Men, Submit To Fate.

Expression Is The Dress Of Thought.

Good-humor Only Teaches Charms To Last, Still Makes New Conquests And Maintains The Past.

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.

Placed On This Isthmus Of A Middle State.

Nor In The Critic Let The Man Be Lost.