Though, Love, thy lips are pale with praying,
Though thy crowned brows are faint and chill,
they tired eyes dim with long delaying,
And down thy cheeks the salt tears straying,
Yet, love, thou art our own Lord still.
An Anthology of pieces drawn from my collecting and dealing in the obscure byways of queer literature. A new kind of anthology I hope - evolving, odd, eclectic...