You Have Left Me So Long To

Every Leaf Speaks Bliss To Me, Fluttering From The Autumn Tree.

Vain Are The Thousand Creeds That Move Men's Hearts, Unutterably Vain; Worthless As Withered Weeds, Or Idlest Froth Amid The Boundless Main.

I Have No Pity! I Have No Pity! The More Worms Writhe, The More I Yearn To Crush Out Their Entrails! It Is A Moral Teething, And I Grind With Greater Energy, In Proportion To The Increase Of Pain.

Proud People Breed Sad Sorrows For Themselves.

The Tyrant Grinds Down His Slaves And They Don't Turn Against Him, They Crush Those Beneath Them.