My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.

The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.

Love comes in at the eye.

And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.

Style, personality - deliberately adopted and therefore a mask - is the only escape from the hot-faced bargainers and money-changers.

Does the imagination dwell the most Upon a woman won or a woman lost?