No One Knows, The Heart Of A

The Elixir Of Life, The Philosopher's Stone Is Yours If You Surrender Sterile Logic, Trivial Reason.

But Beauty Is Set Apart, Beauty Is Cast By The Sea, A Barren Rock, Beauty Is Set About With Wrecks Of Ships.

In My Garden The Winds Have Beaten The Ripe Lilies; In My Garden, The Salt Has Wilted The First Flakes Of Young Narcissus.

It Is No Madness To Say You Will Fall, You Great Cities.

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