People who serve you without love get even behind your back.

There is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe.

O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you; As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you, Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.

Everybody is writing, writing, writing - worst of all, writing poetry. It'd be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers - every damned one of us - were sent off somewhere with tool chests to do some honest work.

You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe much unseen is also here

Here the frailest leaves of me and yet my strongest lasting, Here I shade and hide my thoughts, I myself do not expose them, And yet they expose me more than all my other poems

I think it is lost.....but nothing is ever lost nor can be lost .