Light Threatens, Is Active, Is Gone, So

Love Is A Garment Riven In The Light That Rises From Parnassus, Showing The Night Is Over.

Alas, Day, You Brought Light, You Trailed Splendour You Showed Us God: I Salute You, Most Precious One, But I Go To A New Place, Another Life.

The Race May Or May Not Be To The Swift, But Tell Me, Is It Likely That The Fight Will Be Entrusted To The Dead?

O Beautiful White Land, Olives And Wild Anemone And Violet Mingled Among The Shale, And Purple Wings Of Little Winter-butterflies Say, Here Psyche, The Soul, Lies.

O Happy, Happy Each Man Whom Predestined Fate Leads To The Holy Rite Of Hill And Mountain Worship.