Ye Waves That O'er Th' Interminable Ocean

I Willingly Speak To Those Who Know, But For Those Who Do Not Know I Forget.

The Seed Of Mortals Broods O'er Passing Things, And Hath Nought Surer Than The Smoke-cloud's Shadow.

The Moving Light, Rejoicing In Its Strength, Sped From The Pyre Of Pine, And Urged Its Way, In Golden Glory, Like Some Strange New Sun.

For A Single Path Leads To The House Of Hades.

When A Man Dies, Flesh Is Frayed And Broken In The Fire, But Not His Will.