Polyphonic Prose Is A Kind Of Free

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

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?

Time! Joyless Emblem Of The Greed Of Millions, Robber Of The Best Which Earth Can Give.

Art Is The Desire Of A Man To Express Himself, To Record The Reactions Of His Personality To The World He Lives In.

Witches Are Moon-birds, Witches Are The Women Of The False, Beautiful Moon.