No One Knows The Colour

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

One Flower May Slay The Winter And Meet Death.

Escape From The Power Of The Hunting Pack, And To Know That Wisdom Is Best And Beauty Sheer Holiness.

War Wreaked On You His Hideous Ravishment; We, We Alone, Nereids Inviolate, Remain To Weep, With The Sea-birds To Chant: Corinth Is Lost, Corinth Is Desolate.