Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I

Love Is A Garment Riven In The Light That Rises From Parnassus, Showing The Night Is Over.

The Stallion And His Mare, Unbridled, With Arrow-pattern, Are Worked On. The Blue Cloth Before The Door Of Religion And Inspiration.

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.

I Myself Have Seen The Floating Ships And Nothing Will Ever Be The Same The Shouts, The Harrowing Voices Within The House. I Stand Apart With An Army: My Mind Is Graven With Ships.

Until It Seems The Whole City Will Be Covered With Gold Pollen Shaken From The Bell-towers, Lilies Plundered With The Weight Of Massive Bees . . .