Even pain pricks to livelier living.

To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.

If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.

Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her.

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

I never deny poems when they come; whatever I am doing, whatever I am writing, I lay it aside and attend to the arriving poem.

Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.