The Whole White World Is Ours.

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.

Thoth, Hermes, The Stylus, The Palette, The Pen, The Quill Endure, Though Our Books Are A Floor Of Smouldering Ash Under Our Feet.

Our Minds Can Go No Further. The Human Imagination Is Capable Of No Further Expression Of Beauty Than The Carved Owl Of Athene, The Archaic, Marble Serpent, The Arrogant Selfish Head Of The Acropolis Apollo.

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

Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor Hate For A Cry, But God With A Song