The Candid Incline To Surmise Of Late

Mothers, Wives And Maids, These Be The Tools With Which Priests Manage Men.

How Strange Now, Looks The Life He Makes Us Lead; So Free We Seem, So Fettered Fast We Are!

All June I Bound The Rose In Sheaves, Now, Rose By Rose, I Strip The Leaves.

What Of Soul Was Left, I Wonder, When The Kissing Had To Stop?

For I Say This Is Death And The Sole Death,- When A Man's Loss Comes To Him From His Gain, Darkness From Light, From Knowledge Ignorance, And Lack Of Love From Love Made Manifest.