The Soul Of This Man Is His

This Look Of Thine Will Hurl My Soul From Heaven.

For The Poor Wren (the Most Diminutive Of Birds) Will Fight, Her Young Ones In Her Nest, Against The Owl.

Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feelings As To Sight?

They Do Not Love That Do Not Show Their Love.

Lords, I Protest My Soul Is Full Of Woe That Blood Should Sprinkle Me To Make Me Grow. Come, Mourn With Me For What I Do Lament, And Put Sullen Black Incontinent. I'll Make A Voyage To The Holy Land To Wash This Blood Off From My Guilty Hand. March Sadly After. Grace My Mournings Here In Weeping After This Untimely Bier.