The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

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

No One Knows The Colour Of A Flower Till It Is Broken.

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.

We Don't Have To Know,only To Be:let Go The Jumble Of Worn Words,reason And Vanity.

When You Would Think, "what Was The Use Of It," You'll Remember Something You Can't Grasp And You'll Wonder What It Was.