A Search for a Form My soul is not going where you would make me go; i would not live against the air, which i adore. Spring winds blow here and tumble rhododendron petals about me. I shall not rise to the bellicose song of the trees, which i see always, reigning above, claiming planet’s right, crowned. The bees buzz how raw of land for delicate flies, were that crown heavy. I will wait for my flesh and fullness, my own phenomena. I will not be where you would have me.
- Mina Loy