I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.

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

But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.

I drank at every vine, the last was like the first. I came upon no wine so wonderful as thirst.

Not for the flag Of any land because myself was born there Will I give up my life. But I will love that land where man is free, And that will I defend.

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

Not poppy, nor mandrake, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep, Which thou owest yesterday.