And thus, upon a starving rock,
Where gods look down upon an envied race,
Where an All-Embracing Urn hosts the night, this noon,
Truth shall rest in her Mother’s womb and Beauty, her arms.

Claim lineage to Butterflies,
And know that Jacob’s Ladder
Lies in some halfway Darkened Forest.
Claim to know the song of Children,
Who sleep among the waxing Moon,
And embrace the Vial of Ancient Glory,
Thy God’s envied Hemlock,
With humility.

A song rustles among the fields this eve,
So plays the Muse,
And whether Men die are born,
The grass awaits the morning dew.