From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.

To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.

And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.

That toil of growing up; The ignominy of boyhood; the distress Of boyhood changing into man; The unfinished man and his pain.

What can be explained is not poetry.

Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.

I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.