A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.

If I love you Wednesday, What is that to you? I do not love you Thursday - so much is true.

That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.

I would blossom if I were a rose.

No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.

Oh, children, growing up to be Adventurers into sophistry, Forbear, forbear to be of those That read the rood to learn the rose.

This have I known always: Love is no more than the wide blossom which the wind assails, than the great tide that treads the shifting shore, strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales; Pity me that the heart is slow to learn, that the swift mind beholds at every turn.