You troubled tyrannic wretch: fear yourself more than love, but love fear more than yourself for there is nothing present to love. Recoil into the vicissitude of misfortune bestowed upon the meager; drink wine and feel it seep in bones, in soil, in reason. Laugh at your prayer: prayers to men of reproach and bile. Oh, sadness. Oh, sweetness.
Watch me; I’ve said it again and against the sayers: look for trials to test your devotion–not your character for that–ha!–is long begot. The Daghdha cannot stop me now–not without ideals, not without symptom. And all the Dreams that watched Urania’s eyes, And all the Echoes whom their sister’s song Had held in holy silence, cried: “Arise!”
Call this from me, beseech you, call it high into beyond. Your time is profane; mine sacred. This I cannot preach to you more, lest the cherubim comfort me. Right before me you lie, tethered to wanderers and specters. She from earth arise, in lavender sheath and sunlight stand. She, the spirit of thy brand, of thy soul’s chariot.