The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

I Knew The Poor, I Knew The Hideous Death They Die, When Famine Lays Its Bleak Hand On The Door; I Knew The Rich, Sated With Merriment, Who Yet Are Sad.

When You Would Think, "what Was The Use Of It," You'll Remember Something You Can't Grasp And You'll Wonder What It Was.

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.

There Must Be Real Gods See, The Painted Gods How Fair!

One Flower May Slay The Winter And Meet Death.