I did die;
I did get taken to the Third Heaven.
I did hear unutterable words.
But, still, do not put your trust in me.
Put it in Him, Who descended into the Grave
And raised to eternal glory on the third day.
Amen. Born of a virgin.

Mr. Emerson, I have read and quaffed deep
Of the passion that you describe.
What more is there to say?
Exuberant, friendship is deep;
The balance between amity and animosity
Is what strikes me most in your essay.
Who has said it better?
I cannot. Surely...

Friends are knitted to each others' souls,
And if undone, the threads pull away
And a hole is left in their garments.
Yet, the knitter knows to do so
In order to strengthen the fabric once more.
If the seam was imperfect the first, second, or third time,
The tailor knits it anew.

For, friends leave, sometimes the distance of five years;
For a bitter fight, for a bitter antagonism,
For a harsh word, a harsh syllable,
A slur, a comment or nasty degree.
And like church discipline,
This absence of the fellowship grows patience
Within the heart of a man;
To reflect and learn how not to injure.
For, in the absence, the friends come together
After years of repose, new men
Yet the old men, and congregate
To find the roots of their friendships
In tact, and sewn back together
Where the threads were pulled,
The holed extremities seamed,
And then the threads woven once anew
To make a stronger garment,
And to teach a true friend the lesson
Of being a friend:
Which is to listen.

In the deep winter,
When the trees call forth their buds---
A mad time, a dizzying time,
A frightening time,
The newborn to nature's ennui
When her tender leaves
Bud in the deadness of winter's hoary breath;
A warm week in January or February,
There arrives the Mad Spring
Where the careful naturalist
Observes Mother Nature
Peeping open her weary eyes
For just a short peak,
And then the Jack Frost comes
And that Sandman puts the sleepies
Back under her eyes.


Yet, the newborn to nature's ennui
Will be frightened by this madness,
For it seems like spring is a month early.
Do not fear.

It is "Delicious", twice the word is used.
It arouses my distaste, Mr. Emmerson,
Yet the moment I trusted your ability
I felt the flow of your spirit into me.

I often wonder how many of our Scholars
Will not see the efficacy of another's verse
Because they, too, delight in this vice?

The song comes from “The Birks (Birch) of St. Kilda” which is the name of the melody in an episode of Smallville, which is what Lex Luther attributes the name of the melody. If it is the name, or not, that’s been lost, perhaps, within the past ten years; but there is no record of it on the Internet. The melody is actually, the way I know it, a traditional celtic song, sung in both Ireland and Scotland. “Red is the Rose” and “The Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond”. It’s a particularly beautiful song. I’ll leave a link in the description.

But, in Smallville, the melody plays when Lex Luthor retrieves a key to an Orb that can control Clark, and it gives him a clue—what I haven’t watched the next episode, and am researching this very thing right now.

Personally, it seems a little bit too authentic for it to be a false attribution, so I’m a little curious as to how the show retrieved that particular name. It would be curious, if we could lose something like that over the course of a decade. That’d be very curious indeed.

Or, what’s also probable, it is a touristy area for some ancient ruins, and Smallville’s writers invented the name to get Lex Luthor to that specific Island. And the writers of Smallville were just that good. Which, the show is probably some of the best Television ever produced, so they could coin a word that sounds like it has provenance.

Although, after some research, the island is famous for bells, which were rung to draw ships into safe passage around the archipelago. So, it very well could be an actual song, or the writers of Smallville were just that good. But then again, the Smallville Song is “Birk” which means “Birch Tree”. So, it’s likely the show was getting inventive, and it coined a song that doesn’t exist to a traditional melody. It just sounds so authentic, though.

In the Eagle's nest, the carrion was fed
And the Eaglets ripped apart one another
For their mother's pellet of vomit.

In the dove's nest, the silver lined
Creature flew, peacefully giving
The milk from her throat.

One day, eggs from the two nests were switched.
The dove hatched in the Eagle's nest,
And the Eagle hatched in the dove's nest.

The Eagle, seeing it was weak,
Would not feed the dove,
So she starved to death,
And was picked apart by her brothers and sisters.

The dove, seeing her giant offspring,
Fed what she could, but on account
That the bird could not drink her milk,
The Eaglet got hungry, and committed patricide.

Such are wolves and sheep, too.
Such are the evil and good among men.

I was once asked how much I trust my senses
Out of a score of one hundred percent;
The professor then went on to say,
But I didn't listen to it,
"One being the least, and 100 being the most."
I answered as such:

Hearing 18%
Sight 12%
Smell 20%
Taste 20%
Feel 30%

I'm not sure what this makes me.
For the record, I was not saying that because I don't trust my senses;
Yet, that little project was an insight into Marc's PTSD.

Noumenon is Kant's golden treasure.
Phenomenon is Kant's fecal trash.
If Phenomena is not perceptive of Noumenon
That is an error in judgment, or illness.
Perhaps even both.