She dealt her pretty words like Blades -- How glittering they shone -- And every One unbared a Nerve Or wantoned with a Bone -- She never deemed -- she hurt -- That -- is not Steel's Affair -- A vulgar grimace in the Flesh -- How ill the Creatures bear -- To Ache is human -- not polite -- The Film upon the eye Mortality's old Custom -- Just locking up -- to Die.

How softly summer shuts, without the creaking of a door.

Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, "Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me"?

There's a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.

Love is like life-merely longer.

Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind-Thy windy will to bear!

That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.