Fate's Arrow, When Expected, Travels

The Infernal Storm, Eternal In Its Rage, Sweeps And Drives The Spirits With Its Blast; It Whirls Them, Lashing Them With Punishment. When They Are Swept Back Past Their Place Of Judgment Then Come The Shrieks, Laments, And Anguished Cries; There They Blaspheme God's Almighty Power.

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.

That Infinite And Indescribable Good Which Is There Above Races As Swiftly To Love As A Ray Of Light To A Bright Body.it Gives Of Itself According To The Ardor It Finds, So That As Charity Spreads Farther The Eternal Good Increases Upon It,and The More Souls There Are Who Love, Up There, The More There Are To Love Well, And The More Love They Reflect To Each Other, As In A Mirror.

Blessed Are The Peacemakers, For They Have Freed Themselves From Sinful Wrath.

Lost Are We, And Are Only So Far Punished, That Without Hope We Live On In Desire.