We bury love; Forgetfulness grows over it like grass: That is a thing to weep for, not the dead.
We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once.
Death is the ugly fact which Nature has to hide, and she hides it well.
A poem round and perfect as a star.
To be occasionally quoted is the only fame I care for.
In my garden, care stops at the gate and gazes at me wistfully through the bars.