The longest absence is less perilous to love than the terrible trials of incessant proximity.

Night falls fast. Today is in the past.

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

Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.

I have loved badly, loved the great Too soon, withdrawn my words too late; And eaten in an echoing hall Alone and from a chipped plate The words that I withdrew too late.

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.

This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.