Even pain pricks to livelier living.

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

When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.

How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree; The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips; The moon, Still, Upon your face. You shine, Beloved, You and the moon. But which is the reflection?

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.

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!