Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.
This is war: Boys flung into a breach Like shoveled earth; And old men, Broken, Driving rapidly before crowds of people In a glitter of silly decorations. Behind the boys And the old men, Life weeps, And shreds her garments To the blowing winds.
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.