As life grows more terrible, its literature grows more terrible.

Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.

Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.

Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill.

Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?

It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.