I Spit Honey Out Of My Mouth:

Cheat Me Not With Time, With The Dull Ache Of Flesh, For All Flesh Turns, Even The Loveliest Ankle And Frail Thigh, To Bitterest Dust.

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

Why Wait For Death To Mow? Why Wait For Death To Sow Us In The Ground?

O Happy, Happy Each Man Whom Predestined Fate Leads To The Holy Rite Of Hill And Mountain Worship.

Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward Me To Learn Of Love.