O Do Not Weep, She Says, For

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

Think Of The Moment You Count Most Foul In Your Life; Conjure It, Supplicate, Pray To It; Your Face Is Bleak, You Retract, You Dare Not Remember It.

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

War Is A Fevered God Who Takes Alike Maiden And King And Clod.