There's A Black Rose Growing In Your

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

The Heart The Heart The Heart How It Thrives On Hate.

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.

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

Luminous, Unfearful; High-priestesses, Our Fervour Shall Banish All Evil.