Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With

Out Of Chaos God Made A World, And Out Of High Passions Comes A People.

Smiles Form The Channels Of A Future Tear.

A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.

And Mocha's Berry, From Arabia Pure, In Small Fine China Cups, Came In At Last. Gold Cups Of Filigree, Made To Secure The Hand From Burning, Underneath Them Place. Cloves, Cinnamon And Saffron, Too, Were Boiled Up With The Coffee, Which, I Think, They Spoiled.

My Native Land, Good Night!