Witches Are Moon-birds, Witches Are The Women

The Stigma Of Oddness Is The Price A Myopic World Always Exacts Of Genius.

Even Pain Pricks To Livelier Living.

I Should Like To Bring A Case To Trial: Prosperity Versus Beauty, Cash Registers Teetering In A Balance Against The Comfort Of The Soul.

How Much More Beautiful Is The Moon, Slanting Down The Gauffered Branches Of A Plum-tree; The Moon Wavering Across A Bed Of Tulips; The Moon, Still, Upon Your Face. You Shine, Beloved, You And The Moon. But Which Is The Reflection?

Oh! To Be A Flower Nodding In The Sun, Bending, Then Upspringing As The Breezes Run.