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.

Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.

On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.

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?

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

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.