Ever and always do I choose
The Path that leadeth me far from Thee
Suffering the whims of a pagan muse
With frightful, chilled depravity;
O Thou who only art, Thou who alone can be
Sensation slippeth from intellect
And the Tyrant grows in the heart of me.
Why looketh I upon things so suspect,
That deriveth being only from Thee,
As a source of my own inspiration–
Bringing only, in the end, desperation?
Thus shall it ever be, when Thou leavest me to myself.