Fall The Deep Curtains, Delicate The Weave,

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

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

We Are These People, Wistful, Ironical, Wilful, Who Have No Part In New-world Reconstruction, In The Confederacy Of Labour.

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

You Are Wind In A Stark Tree, You Are The Stark Tree Unbent, You Are A Strung Bow, You Are An Arrow.