A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.

The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book.

The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.

She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need for imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires. Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang?

Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.

Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.