Lift Up Our Eyes To

The Greeks Have Snatched Up Their Spears. They Have Pointed The Helms Of Their Ships Toward The Bulwarks Of Troy.

Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor Hate For A Cry, But God With A Song

Love That I Bear Within My Breast How Is My Armour Melted How My Heart

The Heart The Heart The Heart How It Thrives On Hate.

Thoth, Hermes, The Stylus, The Palette, The Pen, The Quill Endure, Though Our Books Are A Floor Of Smouldering Ash Under Our Feet.