For In My Youth I Never Did

Enjoy The Honey-heavy Dew Of Slumber.

We Will All Laugh At Gilded Butterflies.

The Eye Of Man Hath Not Heard, The Ear Of Man Hath Not Seen, Man's Hand Is Not Able To Taste, His Tongue To Conceive, Nor His Heart To Report, What My Dream Was.

Then Others For Breath Of Words Respect, Me For My Dumb Thoughts, Speaking In Effect.

The Urging Of That Word, Judgment, Hath Bred A Kind Of Remorse In Me.