The poem springs from the half spoken words of the patient.... When asked, how I have for so many years continued an equal interest in medicine and the poem, I reply that they amount for me to nearly the same thing.

It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!

But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.

I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.