You See, I Am A Poet, And

I Do Not Think There Is A Woman In Whom The Roots Of Passion Shoot Deeper Than In Me.

Oh, Children, Growing Up To Be Adventurers Into Sophistry, Forbear, Forbear To Be Of Those That Read The Rood To Learn The Rose.

And Reaching Up My Hand To Try, I Screamed To Feel It Touch The Sky.

But You, You Foolish Girl, You Have Gone Home To A Leaky Castle Across The Sea To Lie Awake In Linen Smelling Of Lavender, And Hear The Nightingale, And Long For Me.

Now The Autumn Shudders In The Rose's Root. Far And Wide The Ladders Lean Among The Fruit. Now The Autumn Clambers Up The Trellised Frame, And The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came. Brighter Than The Blossom On The Rose's Bough Sits The Wizened Orange, Bitter Berry Now; Beauty Never Slumbers; All Is In Her Name; But The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came.