Till it has loved, no man or woman can become itself.

Tis not that dieing hurts us so- tis living- hurts us more.

Until you have loved, you cannot become yourself.

He fumbles at your spirit As players at the keys Before they drop full music on; He stuns you by degrees. Prepares your brittle substance For the ethereal blow by fainter hammers, further heard, Then nearer, then so slow Your breath has time to straighten Your brain to bubble cool,- Deals one imperial thunderbolt That scalps your naked soul.

You cannot fold a flood and put it in a drawer, because the winds would find it out and tell your cedar floor.

Noon - is the Hinge of Day-.

I have an appetite for silence.