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

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

Even pain pricks to livelier living.

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.

I do not suppose that anyone not a poet can realize the agony of creating a poem. Every nerve, even every muscle, seems strained to the breaking point. The poem will not be denied; to refuse to write it would be a greater torture. It tears its way out of the brain, splintering and breaking its passage, and leaves that organ in the state of a jelly-fish when the task is done.

Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.