Time! Joyless Emblem Of The Greed Of

Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

Witches Are Moon-birds, Witches Are The Women Of The False, Beautiful Moon.

This Is War: Boys Flung Into A Breach Like Shoveled Earth; And Old Men, Broken, Driving Rapidly Before Crowds Of People In A Glitter Of Silly Decorations. Behind The Boys And The Old Men, Life Weeps, And Shreds Her Garments To The Blowing Winds.

I Should Like To Bring A Case To Trial: Prosperity Versus Beauty, Cash Registers Teetering In A Balance Against The Comfort Of The Soul.