Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor

I Spit Honey Out Of My Mouth: Nothing Is Second-best After The Sweet Of Eros.

I Testify To Rainbow Feathers, To The Span Of Heaven And Walls Of Colour, The Colonnades Of Jasper.

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

Every Concrete Object Has Abstract Value, Is Timeless In The Dream Parallel.

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