That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.

Have I not walked without an upward look Of caution under stars that very well Might not have missed me when they shot and fell? It was a risk I had to take-and took.

There never was any heart truly great and generous, that was not also tender and compassionate.

I only hope that when I am free, as they are free to go in quest, of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life, it may not seem better to me to rest.

In heaven we are all ghostwriters, if we write at all.

Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?

A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair.