Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of

Hate Is Ravening Vulture Beaks Descending On A Place Of Skulls.

When You Came, You Were Like Red Wine And Honey, And The Taste Of You Burnt My Mouth With Its Sweetness.

Happiness, To Some, Elation; Is, To Others, Mere Stagnation.

Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon A Flower, Winking With Its Painted Wings, Happy In The Hour.

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.