How many million Aprils came before I ever knew how white a cherry bough could be, a bed of squills, how blue And many a dancing April when life is done with me, will lift the blue flame of the flower and the white flame of the tree Oh burn me with your beauty then, oh hurt me tree and flower, lest in the end death try to take even this glistening hour.

My soul is a broken field, plowed by pain.

Down the hill I went, and then, I forgot the ways of men, For night-scents, heady and damp and cool Wakened ecstasy

There's nothing half so real in life as the things you've done... inexorably, unalterably done.

O beauty, are you not enough; why am I crying after love.

I found more joy in sorrow than you could find in joy.

Of my own spirit let me be in sole though feeble mastery.