Part of the Part am I, once All, in primal Night,— Part of the Darkness which brought forth the Light

I am the Spirit that Denies! And justly so: for all things, from the Void Called forth, deserve to be destroyed:

’Tis written: “In the Beginning was the Word.” Here am I balked: who, now can help afford? The Word?

Since all that’s coarse provokes my enmity. This fiddling, shouting, ten-pin rolling I hate,—these noises of the throng: They rave, as Satan were their sports controlling. And call it mirth, and call it song!

A thunder-word hath swept me from my stand

He art thou, who, my presence breathing, seeing, Trembles through all the depths of being, A writhing worm, a terror-stricken form

Spirit I invoke

How each the Whole its substance gives, Each in the other works and lives!

Am I a God?—so clear mine eyes

I do not pretend to aught worth knowing, I do not pretend I could be a teacher To help or convert a fellow-creature

He cannot choose but err.

How men torment themselves, is all I’ve noted. The little god o’ the world sticks to the same old way, And is as whimsical as on Creation’s day. Life somewhat better might content him, But for the gleam of heavenly light which Thou hast lent him: He calls it Reason—thence his power’s increased

Compost

gluttons

distemper'd

mite

disdainful

strata

amorous

fetor,