Love Must Have Wings To Fly Away

Poets And Kings Are But The Clerks Of Time, Tiering The Same Dull Webs Of Discontent, Clipping The Same Sad Alnage Of The Years.

Ah, When Shall Come Love's Courage To Be Strong! Tell Me, O Lord--tell Me, O Lord, How Long Are We To Keep Christ Writhing On The Cross!

And We Who Delve In Beauty's Lore Know All That We Have Known Before Of What Inexorable Cause Makes Time So Vicious In His Reaping.

To Some Will Come A Time When Change Itself Is Beauty, If Not Heaven.

The Stillness Of October Gold Went Out Like Beauty From A Face.