If what we worship fail us, still the fire burns on, and it is much to have believed..

Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whalebone and brocade..

Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning..

Only those of our poets who kept solidly to the Shakespearean tradition achieved any measure of success. But Keats was the last great exponent of tha….

How much more beautiful is the moon, Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree; The moon Wavering across a bed of tulips; The moon, Still,….

The stigma of oddness is the price a myopic world always exacts of genius..

I shall go Up and down In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed..

Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity..

Oh! To be a butterfly Still, upon a flower, Winking with its painted wings, Happy in the hour..

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow..

I know that a creed is the shell of a lie..

When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness..

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness..

Oh! To be a flower Nodding in the sun, Bending, then upspringing As the breezes run..

Art is like politics. Any theory carried too far ends in sterility, and freshness is only gained by following some other line..

I must be mad, or very tired, When the curve of a blue bay beyond a railroad track Is shrill and sweet to me like the sudden springing of a tune, And….

Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin.

How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!.

Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her ….

All recurring joy is pain refined..

I do not suppose that anyone not a poet can realize the agony of creating a poem. Every nerve, even every muscle, seems strained to the breaking poin….