I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

Life is a journey up a spiral staircase; as we grow older we cover the ground covered we have covered before, only higher up; as we look down the winding stair below us we measure our progress by the number of places where we were but no longer are. The journey is both repetitious and progressive; we go both round and upward.

Some burn damp faggots, others may consume The entire combustible world in one small room.

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.