I Never Deny Poems When They Come;

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

Can You See Through The Night, Woman, That You Stare So Upon It? Man, What Sparks Do Your Eyes Follow In The Smouldering Darkness?

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

Happiness, To Some, Elation; Is, To Others, Mere Stagnation.

Witches Are Moon-birds, Witches Are The Women Of The False, Beautiful Moon.