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.

When I am alone I am happy.

It's a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!

The American idiom has much to offer us that the English language has never heard of

Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!

O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.

The only realism in art is of the imagination.