O'er Many A Frozen, Many A Fiery

Ink Is The Blood Of The Printing-press.

His Rod Revers'd, And Backward Mutters Of Dissevering Power.

Tears Such As Angels Weep.

For No Falsehood Can Endure Touch Of Celestial Temper.

Sabrina Fair, Listen Where Thou Art Sitting Under The Glassy, Cool, Translucent Wave, In Twisted Braids Of Lilies Knitting The Loose Train Of Thy Amber-dropping Hair.