Who Dreams Of A Son,

One Flower May Slay The Winter And Meet Death.

Sing And Your Hell Is Heaven, Your Heaven Less Hell.

Remember The Golden Apple-trees; O, Do Not Pity Them, As You Watch Them Drop One By One, For They Fall Exhausted, Numb, Blind But In Certain Ecstasy, For Theirs Is The Hunger For Paradise.

Love Is A Garment Riven In The Light That Rises From Parnassus, Showing The Night Is Over.

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.