The Rich Have No More Of The

Sleep With Clean Hands, Either Kept Clean All Day By Integrity Or Washed Clean At Night By Repentance.

Licence My Roving Hands, And Let Them Go Before, Behind, Between, Above, Below.

For I Am Every Dead Thing In Whom Love Wrought New Alchemy For His Art Did Express A Quintessence Even From Nothingness, From Dull Privations, And Lean Emptiness He Ruined Me, And I Am Re-begot Of Absence, Darkness, Death; Things Which Are Not.

Sleep Is Pain's Easiest Salve

For God's Sake Hold Your Tongue, And Let Me Love.