Ride The Air In Whirlwind.

What Neat Repast Shall Feast Us, Light And Choice, Of Attic Taste?

Awake, Arise Or Be For Ever Fall’n.

Who, As They Sung, Would Take The Prison'd Soul And Lap It In Elysium.

What Am I Pondering, You Ask? So Help Me God, Immortality.

Dark With Excessive Bright.