I think that to transfuse emotion - not to transmit thought but to set up in the reader's sense a vibration corresponding to what was felt by the writer - is the peculiar function of poetry.

With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipped maiden And many a lightfoot lad.

Lovers lying two and two Ask not whom they sleep beside, And the bridegroom all night through Never turns him to the bride.

That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.

Three minutes thought would suffice to find this out; but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.

Stars, I have seen them fall, But when they drop and die No star is lost at all From all the star-sown sky. The toil of all that be Helps not the primal fault; It rains into the sea And still the sea is salt.