"...No! these exquisite features are a mask,
Mere debased ornament with fine grimace;
Behind, atrociously contorted, is
The veritable head, the sincere face
Turned to the shadow of this face which lies...

Why is she weeping? In her lovely pride
She could have conquered the whole race of man;
What unknown evil harrows her lithe side?
She weeps, mad girl, because her life began;
Because she lives. One thing she does deplore
So much that she kneels trembling in the dust-
That she must live tomorrow, evermore...."

Pick the black rose to go further into my home