Who Aspires Must Down As Low As

Such Sober Certainty Of Waking Bliss.

Tears Such As Angels Weep.

For What Can War, But Endless War, Still Breed?

I Was All Ear, And Took In Strains That Might Create A Soul Under The Ribs Of Death.

Me Miserable! Which Way Shall I Fly Infinite Wrath And Infinite Despair? Which Way I Fly Is Hell; Myself Am Hell; And In The Lowest Deep A Lower Deep, Still Threat'ning To Devour Me, Opens Wide, To Which The Hell I Suffer Seems A Heaven.