We Shall Not Always Plant

Give But A Grain Of The Heart's Rich Seed, Confine Some Under Cover, And When Love Goes, Bid Him God-speed. And Find Another Lover.

The Loss Of Love Is A Terrible Thing; They Lie Who Say That Death Is Worse.

Not For Myself I Make This Prayer, But For This Race Of Mine That Stretches Forth From Shadowed Places Dark Hands For Bread And Wine.

The Night Whose Sable Breast Relieves The Stark, White Stars, Is No Less Lovely Being Dark

Africa? A Book One Thumbs Listlessly, Till Slumber Comes.