Above The Smoke And Stir

Revenge, At First Though Sweet, Bitter Ere Long Back On Itself Recoils.

O Sun, To Tell Thee How I Hate Thy Beams That Bring To My Remembrance From What State I Fell, How Glorious Once Above Thy Sphere.

Thou Canst Not Touch The Freedom Of My Mind.

And Sing To Those That Hold The Vital Shears; And Turn The Adamantine Spindle Round, On Which The Fate Of Gods And Men Is Wound.

Sabrina Fair, Listen Where Thou Art Sitting Under The Glassy, Cool, Translucent Wave, In Twisted Braids Of Lilies Knitting The Loose Train Of Thy Amber-dropping Hair.