Everything is sweetened by risk.

In my garden I spend my days; in my library I spend my nights.

My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest.

My garden, with its silence and pulses of fragrance that come and go on the airy undulations, affects me like sweet music. Care stops at the gates, and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.

Men praise poverty, as the African worships Mumbo Jumbo--from terror of the malign power, and a desire to propitiate at.

We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.

Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse. If we attempt to steal a glimpse of its features it disappears.