There are only three things in the world, one is to read poetry, another is to write poetry, and the best of all is to live poetry.

Proud, then, clear-eyed and laughing, go to greet Death as a friend!

Incredibly, inordinately, devastatingly, immortally, calamitously, hearteningly, adorably beautiful.

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

There's little comfort in the wise

The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules.

The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.