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.

I shall not let a sorrow die Until I find the heart of it, Nor let a wordless joy go by Until it talks to me a bit.

Life is a frail moth flying Caught in the web of the years that pass.

The world is tired, the year is old, The faded leaves are glad to die.

Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.

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.