Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.
Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.
Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?
Our words must seem to be inevitable.
Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.