Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor

Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One, Childless, Having No Bright Face To Flatter Its Own, Who Dreams Of A Son?

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.

We Don't Have To Know,only To Be:let Go The Jumble Of Worn Words,reason And Vanity.

Music Sets Up Ladders, It Makes Us Invisible, It Sets Us Apart, It Lets Us Escape; But From The Visible There Is No Escape.

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