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.

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

O do not weep, she says, for ages past I was and I endure

Dance until the earth dance.

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.

Writing. Love is writing.

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