The valley of judg'ment. The forest of olde.
Where'd come the dread presence, so knowne afore?
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.
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