Tis Not A Year Or Two Shows

For Conspiracy, I Know Not How It Tastes, Though It Be Dished For Me To Try How.

For Now I Stand As One Upon A Rock Environed With A Wilderness Of Sea, Who Marks The Waxing Tide Grow Wave By Wave, Expecting Ever When Some Envious Surge Will In His Brinish Bowels Swallow Him.

I Shall Show The Cinders Of My Spirits Through The Ashes Of My Chance.

There Was A Star Danced, And Under That Was I Born.

What Thing, In Honor, Had My Father Lost, That Need To Be Revived And Breathed In Me?