Fall The Deep Curtains, Delicate

The Stallion And His Mare, Unbridled, With Arrow-pattern, Are Worked On. The Blue Cloth Before The Door Of Religion And Inspiration.

You Will Not See That Desire Begets Love, Until It All Flames Into One Concise And Metallic Blaze.

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.

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

Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor Hate For A Cry, But God With A Song