Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One,

No Poetic Phantasy But A Biological Reality, A Fact: I Am An Entity Like Bird, Insect, Plant Or Sea-plant Cell; I Live; I Am Alive.

Lovers May Come And Go, There Was The Memory Of Blood, The Low Call.

For This Beauty, Beauty Without Strength, Chokes Out Life.

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

O Happy, Happy Each Man Whom Predestined Fate Leads To The Holy Rite Of Hill And Mountain Worship.