No More Learning

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The murky flux of sacrifice bedews me not with ruddy trickles like the flux of a purple-fish, the whittles whetted upon Naxian stone spare over my head the possessions1 of Pan, and the fragrant ooze of Nysian boughs2 blackens me not with his           reek; for in me behold an altar knit neither of bricks aureate nor of nuggets Alybaean3, nor yet that altar which the generation of two that was born upon Cynthus did build with the horns of such as bleat and browse over the smooth Cynthian ridges, be not that made my equal in the weighing, for I was builded with aid of certain offspring4 of Heaven by the Nine5 that were born of Earth, and the liege-lord of the deathless decreed their work should be eterne.