My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble,

Remember The Golden Apple-trees; O, Do Not Pity Them, As You Watch Them Drop One By One, For They Fall Exhausted, Numb, Blind But In Certain Ecstasy, For Theirs Is The Hunger For Paradise.

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

I Spit Honey Out Of My Mouth: Nothing Is Second-best After The Sweet Of Eros.

Sing And Your Hell Is Heaven, Your Heaven Less Hell.

I Testify To Rainbow Feathers, To The Span Of Heaven And Walls Of Colour, The Colonnades Of Jasper.