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It is well thou art hid, O Lord, and sittest with glued lips fast on thy throne beyond the yellow […]

Who are these shadows about me—my neighbors, my nearest, the jostler whom I felt at my elbow? I—I who have

I am a pale passionate Pilgrim evoked from the dust and the dark. In my brain are the molten ivories

Yon drowsing Spider that squats there upon Time’s rotting timbers spinning her seven webs of a million threads, spinning and

I hear laughter and there is a feasting, and another marriage is made A conspiracy has been formed to accouch

Night! Night! Eternal Night, whose black vapors have filled all the sluiceways of Time—Night! ageless and void, seamless and bald:

The keenest Cynic of them all: Jesus Christ! Hail! passionate rebel, great anarch of Nazareth, slitter of masks, announcer of

My brain is the haunt of a naked Curiosity that has lured my soul across the purple bars of sense,

God?—the sum of my tendencies, uttered, unuttered, definite, innate; Me the individual, my special differentia—not thee, but me unevolved, guessing