One Flower May Slay The Winter And

In My Garden The Winds Have Beaten The Ripe Lilies; In My Garden, The Salt Has Wilted The First Flakes Of Young Narcissus.

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

You Are Wind In A Stark Tree, You Are The Stark Tree Unbent, You Are A Strung Bow, You Are An Arrow.

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

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