The valley of judg'ment. The forest of olde.
Where'd come the dread presence, so knowne afore?
Thou, who hath risen the oracle of lyes,
Hast thou witnes'd a shepherd feed on his flocke?
The virtues of loss. The hymnes of decay.
Dost thou have faith now, o dearest friend?
And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar,
Or dost thou doubt Lie in thy promythian rage?
Whence came thine yoke of grande tradition,
Hast thou not seen the structure clear?
A quenchlesse fire, a nest of trembling feare.
A path that leads to perill, sorrow and despaire.
Alas, 'tis the world without end.
