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

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

Everything mortal has moments immortal

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

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.

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