Old love, old love, / How can I be true? / Shall I be faithless to myself / Or to you?

I am the pool of gold When sunset burns and dies-- You are my deepening skies; Give me your stars to hold

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful when rain bends down the bough; And I shall be more silent and cold hearted than you are now.

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

My theory is that poems are written because of a state of emotional irritation. It may be present for some time before the poet is conscious of what is tormenting him. The emotional irritation springs, probably, from subconscious combinations of partly forgotten thoughts and feelings. Coming together, like electrical currents in a thunder storm, they produce a poem. ... the poem is written to free the poet from an emotional burden.

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

A hush is over everything, Silent as women wait for love; The world is waiting for the spring.