The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

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

The Greeks Have Snatched Up Their Spears. They Have Pointed The Helms Of Their Ships Toward The Bulwarks Of Troy.

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

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

Love That I Bear Within My Breast How Is My Armour Melted How My Heart