The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.

Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.

A poet's words are of things that do not exist without the words.

Accuracy of observation is the equivalent of accuracy of thinking.

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?

The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.

Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.