The moon has set In a bank of jet That fringes the Western sky, The pleiads seven Have sunk from heaven And the midnight hurries by; My hopes are flown And, alas! alone On my weary couch I lie.

May I write words more naked than flesh, stronger than bone, more resilient than sinew, sensitive than nerve.

The evening star Is the most beautiful of all stars

There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.

I will let my body flow like water over the gentle cushions.

Mere air, these words, but delicious to hear.

What cannot be said will be wept.