Rapture's Self Is Three Parts Sorrow.

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.

Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon A Flower, Winking With Its Painted Wings, Happy In The Hour.

A Man Must Be Sacrificed Now And Again To Provide For The Next Generation Of Men.

Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness Of A Woman Bathing In A Marble Basin, A Basin In The Midst Of Hedges Grown So Thick, She Cannot See Her Lover Hiding, But She Guesses He Is Near, And The Sliding Of The Water Seems The Stroking Of A Dear Hand Upon Her.

So With The Stretch Of The White Road Before Me, Shining Snow Crystals Rainbowed By The Sun, Fields That Are White, Stained With Long, Cool, Blue Shadows, Strong With The Strength Of My Horse As We Run. Joy In The Touch Of The Wind And The Sunlight! Joy! With The Vigorous Earth I Am One.