And Write About It, Goddess,

Pleased To The Last, He Crops The Flowery Food, And Licks The Hand Just Raised To Shed His Blood.

Nor Public Flame, Nor Private, Dares To Shine; Nor Human Spark Is Left, Nor Glimpse Divine! Lo! Thy Dread Empire, Chaos! Is Restored; Light Dies Before Thy Uncreating Word: Thy Hand, Great Anarch! Lets The Curtain Fall; And Universal Darkness Buries All.

How Index-learning Turns No Student Pale, Yet Holds The Eel Of Science By The Tail!

Our Judgments, Like Our Watches, None Go Just Alike, Yet Each Believes His Own

To Pardon Those Absurdities In Ourselves Which We Cannot Suffer In Others Is Neither Better Nor Worse Than To Be More Willing To Be Fools Ourselves Than To Have Others So.