Think Ye By Gazing On

As Long As Skies Are Blue, And Fields Are Green Evening Must Usher Night, Night Urge The Morrow, Month Follow Month With Woe, And Year Wake Year To Sorrow

Where Is Perfection? Where I Cannot Reach.

What! Alive, And So Bold, O Earth?

Men Must Reap The Things They Sow, Force From Force Must Ever Flow.

Those Who Inflict Must Suffer, For They See The Work Of Their Own Hearts, And This Must Be Our Chastisement Or Recompense.