My love for him was so exquisitely pure that if we all were capable of giving and receiving such a beautiful gift the world would be a far more brilliant place; I think we'd all be poets.

For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental; it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

And lips say “God be pitiful,” Who ne'er said “God be praised.”

Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!