Or Bid The Soul Of Orpheus Sing

Who Overcomes By Force, Hath Overcome But Half His Foe.

And That Must End Us, That Must Be Our Cure: To Be No More. Sad Cure! For Who Would Lose, Though Full Of Pain, This Intellectual Being, Those Thoughts That Wander Through Eternity, To Perish, Rather, Swallowed Up And Lost In The Wide Womb Of Uncreated Night Devoid Of Sense And Motion?

How Soon Hath Time, The Subtle Thief Of Youth, Stolen On His Wing My Three-and-twentieth Year!

Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye, While The Bee With Honied Thigh, That At Her Flowery Work Doth Sing, And The Waters Murmuring With Such Consort As They Keep, Entice The Dewy-feathered Sleep.

Law Can Discover Sin, But Not Remove, Save By Those Shadowy Expiations Weak.