Happiness: We rarely feel it. I would buy it, beg it, steal it, Pay in coins of dripping blood For this one transcendent good.
Even pain pricks to livelier living.
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
Everything mortal has moments immortal
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.