Death But Supplies The Oil

Work Without Hope Draws Nectar In A Sieve, And Hope Without An Object Cannot Live.

Oh Sleep! It Is A Gentle Thing, Beloved From Pole To Pole.

So Lonely 'twas That God Himself Scarce Seemed There To Be.

The Nightmare Life-in-death Was She.

Her Lips Were Red, Her Looks Were Free, Her Locks Were Yellow As Gold: Her Skin Was White As Leprosy, The Nightmare Life-in-death Was She, Who Thicks Man's Blood With Cold.