...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.

A tale in everything.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Prompt to move but firm to wait - knowing things rashly sought are rarely found.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.