The Greeks Have Snatched Up

Love Has No Charm When Love Is Swept To Earth: You'd Make A Lop-winged God, Frozen And Contrite, Of God Up-darting, Winged For Passionate Flight.

Alas, Day, You Brought Light, You Trailed Splendour You Showed Us God: I Salute You, Most Precious One, But I Go To A New Place, Another Life.

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.

The Things I Have Are Nameless, Old And True; They May Not Be Named; Few May Live And Know.

The Stallion And His Mare, Unbridled, With Arrow-pattern, Are Worked On. The Blue Cloth Before The Door Of Religion And Inspiration.