Love That I Bear Within My Breast

I Myself Have Seen The Floating Ships And Nothing Will Ever Be The Same The Shouts, The Harrowing Voices Within The House. I Stand Apart With An Army: My Mind Is Graven With Ships.

No One Knows The Colour Of A Flower Till It Is Broken.

Thoth, Hermes, The Stylus, The Palette, The Pen, The Quill Endure, Though Our Books Are A Floor Of Smouldering Ash Under Our Feet.

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

The Things I Have Are Nameless, Old And True; They May Not Be Named; Few May Live And Know.