Art Is The Tree Of

Art Degraded, Imagination Denied.

Sweet Babe, In Thy Face Soft Desires I Can Trace, Secret Joys And Secret Smiles, Little Pretty Infant Wiles.

O Winter! Bar Thine Adamantine Doors: The North Is Thine; There Hast Thou Build Thy Dark, Deep-founded Habitation. Shake Not Thy Roofs, Nor Bend Thy Pillars With Thine Iron Car.

Every Night And Every Morn Some To Misery Are Born. Every Morn And Every Night Some Are Born To Sweet Delight, Some Are Born To Endless Night.

Father, O Father! What Do We Here In This Land Of Unbelief And Fear?