All in the undying lands, all in them undying,
All to drifting, dreary ends evermore declining. All of rock to dust despair, Wherefore dust are wont to wear, And all in the undying lands, all remain. How long have you travelled to the edges Of the prison fields, Scouring for monuments of bone Beneath the succulents? What fragile frame is left behind you, Fading as a whisper out of time, Emerges as the shrieking wind? Compose yourself Compose yourself as one in the undying lands. To whom all authority lies forfeit, Compose yourself. I am what I am only In the hollow place I speak and effect nothing I am changed in every part by every part Surely there is a passing come near A balm of fire for the leaves And I am a longing to decay in better meadows I am a moving uncertainly propelled by airs I am what I am only in the emptied after Ian is a fourth-year English major who alternates his free time between Augustine and the Avengers.
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