O Do Not Weep, She Says, For

Dance Until The Earth Dance.

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.

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

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

We Are Voyagers, Discoverers Of The Not-known, The Unrecorded; We Have No Map; Possibly We Will Reach Haven, Heaven.