Lift Up Our Eyes To You? No,

Love Is A Garment Riven In The Light That Rises From Parnassus, Showing The Night Is Over.

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.

The Fallen Hazel-nuts, Stripped Late Of Their Green Sheaths, The Grapes, Red-purple, Their Berries Dripping With Wine, Pomegranates Already Broken, And Shrunken Fig, And Quinces Untouched, I Bring Thee As Offering.

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

O Happy, Happy Each Man Whom Predestined Fate Leads To The Holy Rite Of Hill And Mountain Worship.