The fallen hazel-nuts, Stripped late of their green sheaths, The grapes, red-purple, Their berries Dripping with wine, Pomegranates already broken, And shrunken fig, And quinces untouched, I bring thee as offering.

Writing. Love is writing.

Words were her plague and words were her redemption.

There's a black rose growing in your garden.

War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.

Until it seems the whole city will be covered with gold pollen shaken from the bell-towers, lilies plundered with the weight of massive bees . . .

Dance until the earth dance.