That Way Of Inspiration Is Always Open,

Our Minds Can Go No Further. The Human Imagination Is Capable Of No Further Expression Of Beauty Than The Carved Owl Of Athene, The Archaic, Marble Serpent, The Arrogant Selfish Head Of The Acropolis Apollo.

Words Were Her Plague And Words Were Her Redemption.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

The Race May Or May Not Be To The Swift, But Tell Me, Is It Likely That The Fight Will Be Entrusted To The Dead?

Long Hours Trail In Their Purple And Long Years Are Lost In Just This Moment While Our Souls Are Near, Our Mouths Separate.