The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on.

I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.

A great hope fell You heard no noise The ruin was within.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old.

The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.

Pain has an element of blank

I have an appetite for silence.