For I say this is death and the sole death,- When a man's loss comes to him from his gain, Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance, And lack of love from love made manifest.

And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.

Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.

Night conceals a world but reveals a universe.

Take away love and our earth is a tomb.

Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.

Smiling the boy fell dead.