But we oppress our natures, God or Fate Is our enemy, we starve
and feed On vain repentance- O we are born too late!
What balm for us in bruised poppy seed Who crowd into one finite
pulse of time The joy of infinite love and the fierce pain of infinite
O we are wearied of this sense of guilt, wearied of pleasures
paramour despair, wearied of every temple we have built...
from the book "Panthea"