Heat Cannot Be Separated From Fire, Or

He Whom You See-along The Downward Arc- Was William, And The Land That Mourns His Death, For Living Charles And Frederick, Now Laments; Now He Has Learned How Heaven Loves The Just Ruler, And He Would Show This Outwardly As Well, So Radiantly Visible.

Those Ancients Who In Poetry Presented The Golden Age, Who Sang Its Happy State, Perhaps, In Their Parnassus, Dreamt This Place. Here, Mankind's Root Was Innocent; And Here Were Every Fruit And Never-ending Spring; These Streams--the Nectar Of Which Poets Sing.

For She Doth Make My Veins And Pulses Tremble.

Lost Are We, And Are Only So Far Punished, That Without Hope We Live On In Desire.

The More Souls Who Resonate Together, The Greater The Intensity Of Their Love... And, Mirror-like... Each Soul Reflects The Other.