The Stars, That Nature Hung In Heaven,

Farewell Happy Fields, Where Joy Forever Dwells: Hail, Horrors, Hail.

Heaven Is For Thee Too High To Know What Passes There; Be Lowly Wise. Think Only What Concerns Thee And Thy Being; Dream Not Of Other Worlds, What Creatures There Live, In What State, Condition, Or Degree, Contented That Thus Far Hath Been Revealed.

The Oracles Are Dumb, No Voice Or Hideous Hum Runs Through The Arched Roof In Words Deceiving. Apollo From His Shrine Can No More Divine, With Hollow Shriek The Steep Of Delphos Leaving. No Nightly Trance Or Breathed Spell Inspires The Pale-eyed Priest From The Prophetic Cell.

Look Homeward, Angel, Now, And Melt With Ruth.

And Ever Against Eating Cares Lap Me In Soft Lydian Airs, Married To Immortal Verse