One Flower May Slay The Winter And

The Christos-image Is Most Difficult To Disentangle From Its Art-craft Junk-shop Paint-and-plaster Medieval Jumble Of Pain-worship And Death-symbol.

We Are These People, Wistful, Ironical, Wilful, Who Have No Part In New-world Reconstruction, In The Confederacy Of Labour.

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.

War Wreaked On You His Hideous Ravishment; We, We Alone, Nereids Inviolate, Remain To Weep, With The Sea-birds To Chant: Corinth Is Lost, Corinth Is Desolate.

Thoth, Hermes, The Stylus, The Palette, The Pen, The Quill Endure, Though Our Books Are A Floor Of Smouldering Ash Under Our Feet.