For This Beauty, Beauty Without Strength, Chokes

Luminous, Unfearful; High-priestesses, Our Fervour Shall Banish All Evil.

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

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.

For You Are Abstract, Making No Mistake, Slurring No Word In The Rhythm You Make, The Poem, Writ In The Air.

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.