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.
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