If What We Worship Fail Us, Still

Sexual Love Is The Most Stupendous Fact Of The Universe, And The Most Magical Mystery Our Poor Blind Senses Know.

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

This Is America, This Vast, Confused Beauty, This Staring, Restless Speed Of Loveliness, Mighty, Overwhelming, Crude, Of All Forms, Making Grandeur Out Of Profusion, Afraid Of No Incongruities, Sublime In Its Audacity, Bizarre Breaker Of Moulds.

Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness Of A Woman Bathing In A Marble Basin

A Black Cat Among Roses, Phlox, Lilac-misted Under A Quarter Moon, The Sweet Smells Of Heliotrope And Night-scented Stock. The Garden Is Very Still. It Is Dazed With Moonlight, Contented With Perfume.