No One Knows The Colour

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

That Way Of Inspiration Is Always Open, And Open To Everyone; It Acts As Go-between, Interpreter, It Explains Symbols Of The Past In To-day's Imagery.

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

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

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.