O Do Not Weep, She Says, For

One Flower May Slay The Winter And Meet Death.

Remember The Golden Apple-trees; O, Do Not Pity Them, As You Watch Them Drop One By One, For They Fall Exhausted, Numb, Blind But In Certain Ecstasy, For Theirs Is The Hunger For Paradise.

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?

No Poetic Phantasy But A Biological Reality, A Fact: I Am An Entity Like Bird, Insect, Plant Or Sea-plant Cell; I Live; I Am Alive.

Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward Me To Learn Of Love.