I Could Not Accept From Wisdom What

Luminous, Unfearful; High-priestesses, Our Fervour Shall Banish All Evil.

There Must Be Real Gods See, The Painted Gods How Fair!

It Is No Madness To Say You Will Fall, You Great Cities.

Lovers May Come And Go, There Was The Memory Of Blood, The Low Call.

In My Garden The Winds Have Beaten The Ripe Lilies; In My Garden, The Salt Has Wilted The First Flakes Of Young Narcissus.