Poor, dear, silly Spring, preparing her annual surprise!
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
God is gracious to some very peculiar people.
I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.
Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.