LXIII.
You know, the frost that chills the core,
That all we love is naught but clay.
Silent a boat glides o’er the Styx,
Yet it leaves light within its wake;
As weary plains grow green with rain
The soul expands in tear-starred nights.
LXIV.
Tears furrow thought, they strengthen will,
Cleanse the foul places of the mind,