Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.

Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.

Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it.

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe,—but to feel the life in you down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully.

A man may love a woman perfectly, and yet by no means ignorantly maintain a thousand women have not larger eyes. Enough that she alone has looked at him with eyes that, large or small, have won his soul.

Love me sweet With all thou art Feeling, thinking, seeing; Love me in the Lightest part, Love me in full Being.