After all my erstwhile dear, my no longer cherished; Need we say it was not love, just because it perished?

One things there's no getting by, I've been a wicked girl, Says I... But, if I can't be sorry I might as well be glad !

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

There is no God. But it does not matter. Man is enough.

Evil alone has oil for every wheel.

And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea.

And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.