And On The Tree Of

But Hail Thou Goddess Sage And Holy, Hail, Divinest Melancholy, Whose Saintly Visage Is Too Bright To Hit The Sense Of Human Sight, And Therefore To Our Weaker View O'erlaid With Black, Staid Wisdom's Hue.

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

Yet From Those Flames No Light, But Rather Darkness Visible.

Avenge, O Lord, Thy Slaughtered Saints, Whose Bones Lie Scattered On The Alpine Mountains Cold; Ev'n Them Who Kept Thy Truth So Pure Of Old When All Our Fathers Worshipped Stocks And Stones Forget Not.

Into This Wild Abyss, The Womb Of Nature And Perhaps Her Grave.