We were so wholly one I had not thought That we could die apart. I had not thought That I could move,—and you be stiff and still! That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb! I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof In some firm fabric, woven in and out; Your golden filaments in fair design Across my duller fibre.

Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.

I will come back to you, I swear I will; And you will know me still. I shall be only a little taller Than when I went.

If ever I said in grief or pride, I'd tired of honest things, I lied.

I find that I never lose Bach. I don't know why I have always loved him so. Except that he is so pure, so relentless and incorruptible, like a principle of geometry.

Life in itself / Is nothing, / An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. / It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, / April / Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Soar, eat ether, see what has never been seen; depart, be lost, but climb.