The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

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

Lovers May Come And Go, There Was The Memory Of Blood, The Low Call.

Love Has No Charm When Love Is Swept To Earth: You'd Make A Lop-winged God, Frozen And Contrite, Of God Up-darting, Winged For Passionate Flight.

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.

My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble, My Face Fixed In Its Marble Mask.