Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.

Let Love Step Down, Open The Clasped Hands, Forfeit The Thorny Crown, Retrieve The Garment That Was Whole, Body And Spirit One, Spirit And Soul.

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

Cheat Me Not With Time, With The Dull Ache Of Flesh, For All Flesh Turns, Even The Loveliest Ankle And Frail Thigh, To Bitterest Dust.

There Must Be Real Gods See, The Painted Gods How Fair!