The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

The Race May Or May Not Be To The Swift, But Tell Me, Is It Likely That The Fight Will Be Entrusted To The Dead?

I Testify To Rainbow Feathers, To The Span Of Heaven And Walls Of Colour, The Colonnades Of Jasper.

Escape From The Power Of The Hunting Pack, And To Know That Wisdom Is Best And Beauty Sheer Holiness.

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

The Things I Have Are Nameless, Old And True; They May Not Be Named; Few May Live And Know.