The plague of gold strikes far and near.

We can't separate our humanity from our poetry.

I should not dare to call my soul my own.

You're something between a dream and a miracle.

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

She lived, we'll say, A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, A quiet life, which was not life at all (But that she had not lived enough to know)

Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which if cut deep down the middle Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.