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.

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

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

She did not look at the daffodils. They didn't mean anything. She looked at the daffodils. She said, 'Thank you for the daffodils.

There's a black rose growing in your garden.

Writing. Love is writing.