I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.
If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed.
Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.
Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
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.
On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.