The Race May Or May Not Be

There's A Black Rose Growing In Your Garden.

Take What The Old-church Found In Mithra's Tomb, Candle And Script And Bell, Take What The New-church Spat Upon And Broke And Shattered.

Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor Hate For A Cry, But God With A Song

Maid Of The Luminous Grey-eyes, Mistress Of Honey And Marble Implacable White Thighs And Goddess, Chaste Daughter Of Zeus.

It Is No Madness To Say You Will Fall, You Great Cities.