I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.

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

If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.

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

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

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'