Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.

When my cats aren't happy, I'm not happy. Not because I care about their mood but because I know they're just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.

Far clouds of feathery gold, Shaded with deepest purple, gleam Like islands on a dark blue sea.

There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!

Fame, power, and gold, are loved for their own sakes - are worshipped with a blind, habitual idolatry.

O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?

Love's Pestilence, and her slow dogs of war.