Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
Hell take curtains! Go with some show of inconvenience; sit openly - to the weather as to grief. Or do you think you can shut your grief in?
A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.
Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.
History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.
You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.