...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.

Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.