Never Love With All Your Heart, It

Quaint, Outlandish Heathen Gods Black Men Fashion Out Of Rods

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.

For We Must Be One Thing Or The Other, An Asset Or A Liability, The Sinew In Your Wing To Help You Soar, Or The Chain To Bind You To Earth.

Ever At Thy Glowing Altar Must My Heart Grow Sick And Falter, Wishing He I Served Were Black.