April hides in a wing where a duck tucks his green head, mourning’s night long still and you haven’t felt yet what sun can
The nut-tree sisterhood, what better name for a row of crazy women, wearing hats of entablature, pushing down their skirts on a breezy porch,
How not to begin with you? You, though anonymous at your genesis, were the first after all, to stir the will. We could make
No plans and preparations without first having a vision, like an angel appearing to you in your bedchamber, or thought slipping in as you