I Will Be Free, No

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

We Are These People, Wistful, Ironical, Wilful, Who Have No Part In New-world Reconstruction, In The Confederacy Of Labour.

Lift Up Our Eyes To You? No, God, We Stare And Stare, Upon A Nearer Thing That Greets Us Here, Death, Violent And Near.

Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward Me To Learn Of Love.

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