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.

I am waylaid by beauty.

Guess I'll weep awhile. Guess I won't, I mean.

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

Youth, have no pity; leave no farthing here For age to invest in compromise and fear.

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!

Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart. I took your thrust, whereby I since am slain, And I lie disheveled in the grass apart, A sodden thing bedrenched by tears and rain.