What Is Dark Within Me,

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

Nor Turned I Ween Adam From His Fair Spouse, Nor Eve The Rites Mysterious Of Connubial Love Refused: Whatever Hypocrites Austerely Talk Of Purity And Place And Innocence, Defaming As Impure What God Declares Pure, And Commands To Some, Leaves Free To All.

Yet Once More, O Ye Laurels, And Once More Ye Myrtles Brown, With Ivy Never Sere, I Come To Pluck Your Berries Harsh And Crude, And With Forced Fingers Rude Shatter Your Leaves Before The Mellowing Year.

Just Are The Ways Of God, And Justifiable To Men; Unless There Be Who Think Not God At All.

Execute Their Airy Purposes.