It Is No Madness To Say You

O Do Not Weep, She Says, For Ages Past I Was And I Endure

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

Writing. Love Is Writing.

One Flower May Slay The Winter And Meet Death.

Remember The Golden Apple-trees; O, Do Not Pity Them, As You Watch Them Drop One By One, For They Fall Exhausted, Numb, Blind But In Certain Ecstasy, For Theirs Is The Hunger For Paradise.