All Your Renown Is Like

Those Ancients Who In Poetry Presented The Golden Age, Who Sang Its Happy State, Perhaps, In Their Parnassus, Dreamt This Place. Here, Mankind's Root Was Innocent; And Here Were Every Fruit And Never-ending Spring; These Streams--the Nectar Of Which Poets Sing.

You Can Stay And Die Or You Can Walk Your Ugly Ass Back Through That Gate. It's Your Call, Pal.

Behold A God More Powerful Than I Who Comes To Rule Over Me.

I Was So Full Of Sleep At The Time That I Left The True Way.

Like The Lark That Soars In The Air, First Singing, Then Silent, Content With The Last Sweetness That Satiates It, Such Seemed To Me That Image, The Imprint Of The Eternal Pleasure.