O Do Not Weep, She Says, For

Writing. Love Is Writing.

You Will Not See That Desire Begets Love, Until It All Flames Into One Concise And Metallic Blaze.

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.

I Fear No Man, No Woman; Flower Does Not Fear Bird, Insect Nor Adder.

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