INVOCATION
| Truth, be more precious to me than the eyes Of happy love; burn hotter in my throat Than passion; and possess me like my pride; More sweet than freedom; more desired than joy; More sacred than the pleasing of a friend. |
SOMETIMES
| Sometimes a child's voice crying on the street Comes winging like an arrow through the wind To pierce my breast with you, my baby, and My pen is weak, and all my thinking dreams Are mist of yearning for the touch of you. |