Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward

Remember The Golden Apple-trees; O, Do Not Pity Them, As You Watch Them Drop One By One, For They Fall Exhausted, Numb, Blind But In Certain Ecstasy, For Theirs Is The Hunger For Paradise.

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

Ah Love Is Bitter And Sweet, But Which Is More Sweet The Bitterness Or The Sweetness, None Has Spoken It.

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