One Flower May Slay The Winter And

No One Knows The Colour Of A Flower Till It Is Broken.

Writing. Love Is Writing.

O Beautiful White Land, Olives And Wild Anemone And Violet Mingled Among The Shale, And Purple Wings Of Little Winter-butterflies Say, Here Psyche, The Soul, Lies.

Ah Love Is Bitter And Sweet, But Which Is More Sweet The Bitterness Or The Sweetness, None Has Spoken It.

Fall The Deep Curtains, Delicate The Weave, Fair The Thread.