Honour Sits Smiling At The Sale Of

Hell Is A City Much Like London A Populous And Smoky City

Men Must Reap The Things They Sow, Force From Force Must Ever Flow.

In The Golden Lightning Of The Sunken Sun O'er Which Clouds Are Brightening, Thou Dost Float And Run Like An Unbodied Joy Whose Race Is Just Begun.

Thou Hast A Voice, Great Mountain, To Repeal. Large Codes Of Fraud And Woe; Not Understood By All, But Which The Wise, And Great, And Good Interpret, Or Make Felt, Or Deeply Feel.

His Fine Wit Makes Such A Wound, The Knife Is Lost In It.