When The Shingles Hissed In The Rain

I Myself Have Seen The Floating Ships And Nothing Will Ever Be The Same The Shouts, The Harrowing Voices Within The House. I Stand Apart With An Army: My Mind Is Graven With Ships.

Love Is A Garment Riven In The Light That Rises From Parnassus, Showing The Night Is Over.

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

Lovers May Come And Go, There Was The Memory Of Blood, The Low Call.

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