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

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.

Sexual love is the most stupendous fact of the universe, and the most magical mystery our poor blind senses know.

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?

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

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.