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.

How loud clocks can tick when a room is empty, and one is alone!

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 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.

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

Happiness, to some, is elation; to others it is mere stagnation.