I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.
On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.