Yes, Heaven Is Thine; But This Is

If I Could Dwell Where Israfel Hath Dwelt And He Where I He Might Not Sing So Wildly Well A Mortal Melody While A Bolder Note Then This Might Swell From My Lyre In The Sky.

You Call It Hope-that Fire Of Fire! It Is But Agony Of Desire.

The Generous Critic Fann'd The Poet's Fire, And Taught The World With Reason To Admire.

Blood Was Its Avatar And Its Seal.

The Nose Of A Mob Is Its Imagination. By This, At Any Time, It Can Be Quietly Led.