That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened the next tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss . . .

All poetry is difficult to read - The sense of it anyhow.

There is no truer truth obtainable by Man than comes of music

Death: the grand perhaps.

The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.

Men are not angels, neither are they brutes.

All poetry is putting the infinite within the finite.