The past has not yet buried all its dead.
I saw three nuns go by the other day:
Three upright coffins slowly gliding by.
A WOMAN LOVES ME
A woman loves me!
’Tis not of her I sing whose womb has been
The primal cradle of my tender self;
I mean not mother-love.
A woman loves me!
’Tis not of her I sing who also sprang