Above The Smoke And Stir Of This

Retiring From The Popular Noise, I Seek This Unfrequented Place To Find Some Ease.

This Horror Will Grow Mild, This Darkness Light.

But Hail Thou Goddess Sage And Holy, Hail, Divinest Melancholy, Whose Saintly Visage Is Too Bright To Hit The Sense Of Human Sight, And Therefore To Our Weaker View O'erlaid With Black, Staid Wisdom's Hue.

And That Must End Us, That Must Be Our Cure: To Be No More. Sad Cure! For Who Would Lose, Though Full Of Pain, This Intellectual Being, Those Thoughts That Wander Through Eternity, To Perish, Rather, Swallowed Up And Lost In The Wide Womb Of Uncreated Night Devoid Of Sense And Motion?

With Ruin Upon Ruin, Rout On Rout, Confusion Worse Confounded.