I Could Not Accept From Wisdom What

The Greeks Have Snatched Up Their Spears. They Have Pointed The Helms Of Their Ships Toward The Bulwarks Of Troy.

War Is A Fevered God Who Takes Alike Maiden And King And Clod.

Lift Up Our Eyes To You? No, God, We Stare And Stare, Upon A Nearer Thing That Greets Us Here, Death, Violent And Near.

The Elixir Of Life, The Philosopher's Stone Is Yours If You Surrender Sterile Logic, Trivial Reason.

O Do Not Weep, She Says, For Ages Past I Was And I Endure