Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor

Let Love Step Down, Open The Clasped Hands, Forfeit The Thorny Crown, Retrieve The Garment That Was Whole, Body And Spirit One, Spirit And Soul.

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

No One Knows, The Heart Of A Child, How It Grows Until It Is Too Late.

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.

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.