In this great land of uncommon sages
Where iniquities have become rated
And hard labour, paid with meagre wages
While morals and truth are dead hated
...
In the hope of an umpteen boon I sit
Like a star still in the spell of the night
Shunning the dole of diurnal orbit
Solo scouring mega rays of the Light
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.
