Not God With Wine, Nor

In My Garden The Winds Have Beaten The Ripe Lilies; In My Garden, The Salt Has Wilted The First Flakes Of Young Narcissus.

Lovers May Come And Go, There Was The Memory Of Blood, The Low Call.

It Is No Madness To Say You Will Fall, You Great Cities.

Words Were Her Plague And Words Were Her Redemption.

There's A Black Rose Growing In Your Garden.