VII.

How many Troys must burn
by wretched over Helens pined?
How blessed Homer, poet blind

VIII.

Transcendence,
finely tints my blood
Grecian sanguinity,
buried in the flood

IX.

A cloud of sawdust and blood
thickens in the morn'
Perseus in my arms, being reborn
Standing outside in the Seventh Hour storm

X.

Promethean fire, lastly lit
Poetic murmurs, forever unwrit

XI.

Ah! Life!
if but dreams within dreams...
God in his armchair,
stitching up the seams

XII.

Trampled by the word:
Salvation absurd

XIII.

My lyre! My sword!
Drowning aloud,
The cries of my horde

XIV.

Your Eyes,
Transfigured by the dusklight
Soaking up the sighs
Of Memory, Of Blessed Memory!
I loved you, then and now!

XV.

On Ephraim's Oak
A princely figure hung
Absolom, not yet unsung
Would I had died...
Empties the lungs,
For thee...