There are words in these rhymes long, They are long, but still as stars in night, No. I have not consumed the drug of youth. I have sicked myself cloy of the grace, That even the greatest Zeus became ash, Where his mount became His Mount. I speak of the stars, then of the breeze, It is we who are tested and sought depraved, But are we not depraved, if so then prove: My grief is that 'tis not the grief despaired, But I am beyond all that can ever be repaired, I breathe twice so I can smell thrice through stars, But when alone, my aching thoughts are one depart. I said two verses, but actually tis three, These are the words;- they spill free: Now sober the art is rank with white, My soul is cast but you know what fight, When the carrier of dust dispels your storm At which point a reason comes to sing thy form.