Rapture's Self Is Three Parts Sorrow.

Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

If What We Worship Fail Us, Still The Fire Burns On, And It Is Much To Have Believed.

Witches Are Moon-birds, Witches Are The Women Of The False, Beautiful Moon.

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.