The Stigma Of Oddness Is The Price

All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.

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

A Black Cat Among Roses, Phlox, Lilac-misted Under A Quarter Moon, The Sweet Smells Of Heliotrope And Night-scented Stock. The Garden Is Very Still. It Is Dazed With Moonlight, Contented With Perfume.

May Is Much Sunshine Through Small Leaves.

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.