You Are Wind In A

But Beauty Is Set Apart, Beauty Is Cast By The Sea, A Barren Rock, Beauty Is Set About With Wrecks Of Ships.

War Is A Fevered God Who Takes Alike Maiden And King And Clod.

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

I Spit Honey Out Of My Mouth: Nothing Is Second-best After The Sweet Of Eros.

The Greeks Have Snatched Up Their Spears. They Have Pointed The Helms Of Their Ships Toward The Bulwarks Of Troy.