You were made perfectly to be loved - and surely I have loved you, in the idea of you, my whole life long.

I heard an angel speak last night/And he said, "Write!"

It was not the apple on the tree but the pair on the ground that caused the trouble in the garden of Eden.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

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

OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

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.