Sob, Heavy World Sob As

Acts Of Injustice Done Between The Setting And The Rising Sun In History Lie Like Bones, Each One.

To Have A Sense Of Sin Means To Feel Guilty At There Being An Ethical Choice To Make, A Guilt Which, However "good" I May Become, Remains Unchanged.

One Rational Voice Is Dumb: Over A Grave The Household Of Impulse Mourns One Dearly Loved. Sad Is Eros, Builder Of Cities, And Weeping Anarchic Aphrodite.

When I Am In The Company Of Scientists, I Feel Like A Shabby Curate Who Has Strayed By Mistake Into A Drawing Room Full Of Dukes.

Long Ago The Accusations Had Begun, And Suddenly Knew By Whom It Had Been Judged