“Wraths My soul is full of fire, Wrath and tempestuous dirge; I feel but one desire, To find a sword and scourge: Since man, by right of birth And nature’s gift at least A god upon the earth, Remaineth but a beast, Ill-ruling, blind and halt, And not by powers’ unknown, Or far-off Heaven’s, fault, But chiefly by his own. Lies!—let us drink them up, The sweet and bitter lies! Man takes the maddening cup And drinks and dreams and dies. Pure as revealing morn The angel Truth stands there; But we, oh basely born! Dare not to look at her. Not by eternal laws Condemn’d to eternal ruth, We suffer; but because We dare not face the truth. We wreath and sanctify us To the inferior gods; For things which vilify us We lash ourselves with rods. We rip our veins and bleed Before the gods of mire; For Moloch, without need, Consume our babes in fire; But the greatest God of all In eternal silence reigns; To His high audience-hall No human soul attains.”
Quote by Ronald Ross
Book:Philosophies
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Philosophies
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