Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.

Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

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

Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.