If We Must Die, Let It Not

We Are Like Trees. We Wear All Colors Naturally.

The Shivering Birds Beneath The Eaves Have Sheltered For The Night.

If We Must Die, Let It Not Be Like Hogs Hunted And Penned In An Inglorious Spot, If We Must Die, O Let Us Nobly Die.

I Have Forgotten Much, But Still Remember The Poinsiana's Red, Blood-red In Warm December.

I Know The Dark Delight Of Being Strange, The Penalty Of Difference In The Crowd, The Loneliness Of Wisdom Among Fools.