O Foolish Anxiety Of Wretched Man, How

They Yearn For What They Fear For.

Not One Drop Of Blood Is Left Inside My Veins That Does Not Throb: I Recognize Signs Of The Ancient Flame.

Here Pity Only Lives When It Is Dead - Virgil

Behold A God More Powerful Than I Who Comes To Rule Over Me.

Those Ancients Who In Poetry Presented The Golden Age, Who Sang Its Happy State, Perhaps, In Their Parnassus, Dreamt This Place. Here, Mankind's Root Was Innocent; And Here Were Every Fruit And Never-ending Spring; These Streams--the Nectar Of Which Poets Sing.