I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.

What is more gentle than a wind is summer?

When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.

Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.

I must choose between despair and Energy──I choose the latter.

I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you.