One Flower May Slay The Winter And

I Spit Honey Out Of My Mouth: Nothing Is Second-best After The Sweet Of Eros.

Could Beauty Be Beaten Out, O Youth The Cities Have Sent To Strike At Each Other's Strength, It Is You Who Have Kept Her Alight.

Take What The Old-church Found In Mithra's Tomb, Candle And Script And Bell, Take What The New-church Spat Upon And Broke And Shattered.

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

My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble, My Face Fixed In Its Marble Mask.