It Was A Time When Only The

Sweet To Me Was Not The Voice Of Man, But The Wind's Voice Was Understood By Me. The Burdocks And The Nettles Fed My Soul, But I Loved The Silver Willow Best Of All.

But Fear And The Muse In Turn Guard The Place Where The Banished Poet Has Gone And The Night That Comes With Quickened Pace Is Ignorant Of Dawn.

You Will Hear Thunder And Remember Me, And Think: She Wanted Storms. The Rim Of The Sky Will Be The Colour Of Hard Crimson, And Your Heart, As It Was Then, Will Be On Fire.

We Are All Carousers And Loose Women Here; How Unhappy We Are Together!

You Do Not Know Just What You've Been Forgiven.