I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind, Am urged by your propinquity to find Your person fair, and feel a certain zest To bear your body's weight upon my breast; So subtly is the fume of life designed, To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind, And leave me once again undone, possessed. Think not for this, however, the poor treason Of my stout blood against my staggering brain, I shall remember you with love, or season My scorn with pity, - let me make it plain: I find this frenzy insufficient reason For conversation when we meet again.

I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.

The Englishman foxtrots as he fox-hunts, with all his being, through thickets, through ditches, over hedges, through chiffons, through waiters, over saxophones, to the victorious finish; and who goes home depends on how many the ambulance will accommodate.

To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak.

Lord I do fear / Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.

You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.

Beautiful as a dandelion-blossom golden in the green grass, this life can be.