Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward

War Is A Fevered God Who Takes Alike Maiden And King And Clod.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

Love Is A Garment Riven In The Light That Rises From Parnassus, Showing The Night Is Over.

I Testify To Rainbow Feathers, To The Span Of Heaven And Walls Of Colour, The Colonnades Of Jasper.