Part Of My Soul I

The Love-lorn Nightingale Nightly To Thee Her Sad Song Mourneth Well.

The Other Shape, If Shape It Might Be Call'd That Shape Had None Distinguishable In Member, Joint, Or Limb; Or Substance Might Be Call'd That Shadow Seem'd, For Each Seem'd Either,--black It Stood As Night, Fierce As Ten Furies, Terrible As Hell, And Shook A Dreadful Dart; What Seem'd His Head The Likeness Of A Kingly Crown Had On. Satan Was Now At Hand.

Apostate, Still Thou Err'st, Nor End Wilt Find Offering, From The Paths Of Truth Remote.

Have Hung My Dank And Dropping Weeds To The Stern God Of Sea.

Athens, The Eye Of Greece, Mother Of Arts And Eloquence.