This Cold Night Will Turn Us All

The Very Firstlings Of My Heart Shall Be The Firstlings Of My Hand.

The Will Is Deaf And Hears No Heedful Friends.

Wilt Thou Whip Thine Own Faults In Other Men?

Orpheus With His Lute Made Trees, And The Mountain Tops That Freeze, Bow Themselves, When He Did Sing; To His Music, Plants And Flowers Ever Sprung; As Sun And Showers There Had Made A Lasting Spring. Every Thing That Heard Him Play, Even The Billows Of The Sea, Hung Their Heads, And Then Lay By. In Sweet Music Is Such Art, Killing Care And Grief Of Heart Fall Asleep, Or Hearing, Die.

O God Of Battles! Steel My Soldiers’ Hearts. Possess Them Not With Fear.