Burdened art they with the plummeting hour
which falls from reason down unto madness,
not grieved further by such sin or fault
as to have left unlit the godly spectre of here,
and now; for may never a tomorrow exist
where gentle minds shalt gentle dreams
rock in the shadow of this tumult, today.
But If not, may vanity spit upon them,
and monsters art they who bleed for men,
bastards in the midst of all innocent fools
charged with the sanctity of raging virtues.