Love That I Bear Within My Breast

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.

Sing And Your Hell Is Heaven, Your Heaven Less Hell.

We Are These People, Wistful, Ironical, Wilful, Who Have No Part In New-world Reconstruction, In The Confederacy Of Labour.

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

It Is No Madness To Say You Will Fall, You Great Cities.