Polyphonic Prose Is A Kind Of Free

Lilacs, False Blue, White, Purple, Colour Of Lilac, Your Great Puffs Of Flowers Are Everywhere In This My New England ... Lilacs In Dooryards Holding Quiet Conversation With An Early Moon; Lilacs Watching A Deserted House; ... Lilacs, Wind-beaten, Staggering Under A Lopsided Shock Of Bloom, You Are Everywhere.

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

Love Is A Game-yes? I Think It Is A Drowning.

How Hard, How Desperately Hard, Is The Way Of The Experimenter In Art!

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.