There's A Black Rose Growing In Your

Every Concrete Object Has Abstract Value, Is Timeless In The Dream Parallel.

The Race May Or May Not Be To The Swift, But Tell Me, Is It Likely That The Fight Will Be Entrusted To The Dead?

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

I Could Not Accept From Wisdom What Love Taught, Woman Is Perfect.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.