The Man Who Pretends To Be A

The Wrath Of The Lion Is The Wisdom Of God.

The Hand Of Vengeance Found The Bed To Which The Purple Tyrant Fled The Iron Hand Crush'd The Tyrant's Head And Became Tyrant In His Stead.

To Create A Little Flower Is The Labour Of Ages.

The Moon, Like A Flower In Heaven's High Bower, With Silent Delight Sits And Smiles On The Night.

All Futurity Seems Teeming With Endless Destruction Never To Be Repelled; Desperate Remorse Swallows The Present In A Quenchless Rage.