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“I, who wait and writhe and wrestle

With air that hath no boughs to nestle

My body, weary of empty clasp,

Strong as a lion and sharp as an asp —

Come, O come!

I am numb

With the lonely lust of devildom.

Thrust the sword through the galling fetter,

All-devourer, all-begetter;

Give me the sign of the Open Eye,

And the token erect of thorny thigh,

And the word of madness and mystery….”

Excerpt from “a Hymn to Pan.”

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