A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.

Just a tender sense of my own process, that holds something of my connection with the divine.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. . . .

I am convinced that there can be no regeneration of mankind until laughter is put down.

It is easier to suppose that the universe has existed for all eternity than to conceive a being beyond its limits capable of creating it.

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Jealousy's eyes are green.