If What We Worship Fail Us, Still

Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones

Life Is A Stream On Which We Strew Petal By Petal The Flower Of Our Heart.

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.

Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness Of A Woman Bathing In A Marble Basin

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.