From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze

So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.

In the house of poetry nothing endures that is not written with blood to be heard with blood.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

You must know that I do not love and that I love you, because everything alive has its two sides; a word is one wing of silence, fire has its cold half. I love you in order to begin to love you, to start infinity again and never to stop loving you: that’s why I do not love you yet. I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held keys in my hand: to a future of joy- a wretched, muddled fate- My love has two lives, in order to love you. -Sonnet XLIV

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.