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.

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.

Empty pockets make empty heads.

There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.

It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you

O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.