I Spit Honey Out Of My Mouth:

For This Beauty, Beauty Without Strength, Chokes Out Life.

One Flower May Slay The Winter And Meet Death.

I Knew The Poor, I Knew The Hideous Death They Die, When Famine Lays Its Bleak Hand On The Door; I Knew The Rich, Sated With Merriment, Who Yet Are Sad.

Why Wait For Death To Mow? Why Wait For Death To Sow Us In The Ground?

In My Garden The Winds Have Beaten The Ripe Lilies; In My Garden, The Salt Has Wilted The First Flakes Of Young Narcissus.