Butterflies...flowers That Fly And All But Sing.

There Is Little Much Beyond The Grave, But The Strong Are Saying Nothing Until They See.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting.

But These Are Flowers That Fly And All But Sing: And Now From Having Ridden Out Desire They Lie Closed Over In The Wind And Cling Where Wheels Have Freshly Sliced The April Mire.

A Turning Point In Modern History.

The Trees That Have It In Their Pent-up Buds To Darken Nature And Be Summer Woods.