For This Beauty, Beauty Without

The Whole White World Is Ours.

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

Love, Why Have You Sought The Horde Of Spearsmen, Why The Tent Achilles Pitched Beside The River-ford?

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

I Fear No Man, No Woman; Flower Does Not Fear Bird, Insect Nor Adder.