Oh, what a love it was, utterly free, unique, like nothing else on earth! Their thoughts were like other people's songs.

I hate everything you say, but not enough to kill you for it.

Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation's tears in shoulder blades.

All mothers are mothers of great people, and it is not their fault that life later disappoints them.

But what are pity, conscience, or fear To the brazen pair, compared With the living sorcery Of their hot embraces?

Immensely grateful, touched, proud, astonished, abashed.

An unshared happiness is not happiness.