The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

No Man Will Be Present In Those Mysteries, Yet All Men Will Kneel, No Man Will Be Potent, Important, Yet All Men Will Feel What It Is To Be A Woman.

War Is A Fevered God Who Takes Alike Maiden And King And Clod.

One Flower May Slay The Winter And Meet Death.

I Spit Honey Out Of My Mouth: Nothing Is Second-best After The Sweet Of Eros.

My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble, My Face Fixed In Its Marble Mask.