Prejudice
- These fell miasmic rings of mist, with ghoulish menace
- bound,
- Like noose-horizons tightening my little world around,
- They still the soaring will to wing, to dance, to speed
- away.
And fling the soul insurgent back into its shell of clay:
- Beneath incrusted silences, a seething Etna lies.
- The fire of whose furnaces may sleep — but never dies!