Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon

To-night When The Full-bellied Moon Swallows The Stars. Grant That I Know.

How Much More Beautiful Is The Moon, Slanting Down The Gauffered Branches Of A Plum-tree; The Moon Wavering Across A Bed Of Tulips; The Moon, Still, Upon Your Face. You Shine, Beloved, You And The Moon. But Which Is The Reflection?

Happiness, To Some, Is Elation; To Others It Is Mere Stagnation.

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.

Rapture's Self Is Three Parts Sorrow.