Poetry is a counterfeit creation, and makes things that are not, as though they were
To know and feel all this and not have the words to express it makes a human a grave of his own thoughts.
Goe and catche a falling starre, Get with child a mandrake root, Tell me, where all past yeares are, Or who cleft the Divel's foot. Teach me to hear Mermaides' singing, Or to keep of envies stinging, And finde What winde Serves to advance an honest minde.
At the round earth's imagined corners, blow your trumpets, angels.
Then love is sin, and let me sinful be.
Commemoration of Pandita Mary Ramabai, Translator of the Scriptures, 1922 A memory of yesterday's pleasures, a fear of tomorrow's dangers, a straw under my knees, a noise in my ear, a light in my eye, an anything, a nothing, a fancy, a chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayers.