I Could Not Accept From Wisdom What

One Flower May Slay The Winter And Meet Death.

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

I Smiled, I Waited, I Was Circumspect; O Never, Never, Never Write That I Missed Life Or Loving.

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.

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