Do Not Desert Me When

In Each Fire There Is A Spirit; Each One Is Wrapped In What Is Burning Him.

Perceive Ye Not That We Are Worms, Designed To Form The Angelic Butterfly, That Goes To Judgment, Leaving All Defence Behind? Why Doth Your Mind Take Such Exalted Pose, Since Ye, Disabled, Are As Insects, Mean As Worm Which Never Transformation Knows?

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.

Knowledge Comes Of Learning Well Retain'd, Unfruitful Else.

Do Not Be Afraid; Our Fate Cannot Be Taken From Us; It Is A Gift.