The Devil Is Not As Black As

Nature Is The Art Of God.

I, Answering In The End, Began: 'alas, How Many Yearning Thoughts, What Great Desire, Have Lead Them Through Such Sorrow To Their Fate?

Like The Lark That Soars In The Air, First Singing, Then Silent, Content With The Last Sweetness That Satiates It, Such Seemed To Me That Image, The Imprint Of The Eternal Pleasure.

Fate's Arrow, When Expected, Travels Slow.

If I Thought I Was Replying To Someone Who Would Every Return To The World, This Flame Would Cease It's Flickering. But Since No One Has Returned From These Depths Alive, If What I've Heard Is True, I Will Answer You Without Fear Of Infamy.