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

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

I know that a creed is the shell of a lie.

Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.

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.

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

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.