The fallen hazel-nuts, Stripped late of their green sheaths, The grapes, red-purple, Their berries Dripping with wine, Pomegranates already broken, And shrunken fig, And quinces untouched, I bring thee as offering.

...if you do not even understand what words say, how can you expect to pass judgement on what words conceal?

Writing. Love is writing.

War is a fevered god who takes alike maiden and king and clod.

remember the golden apple-trees; O, do not pity them, as you watch them drop one by one, for they fall exhausted, numb, blind but in certain ecstasy, for theirs is the hunger for Paradise.

The whole white world is ours.

There's a black rose growing in your garden.