She Did Not Look At The Daffodils.

The Greeks Have Snatched Up Their Spears. They Have Pointed The Helms Of Their Ships Toward The Bulwarks Of Troy.

The Stallion And His Mare, Unbridled, With Arrow-pattern, Are Worked On. The Blue Cloth Before The Door Of Religion And Inspiration.

War Is A Fevered God Who Takes Alike Maiden And King And Clod.

Remember The Golden Apple-trees; O, Do Not Pity Them, As You Watch Them Drop One By One, For They Fall Exhausted, Numb, Blind But In Certain Ecstasy, For Theirs Is The Hunger For Paradise.

O Beautiful White Land, Olives And Wild Anemone And Violet Mingled Among The Shale, And Purple Wings Of Little Winter-butterflies Say, Here Psyche, The Soul, Lies.