April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And

I Do Not Think There Is A Woman In Whom The Roots Of Passion Shoot Deeper Than In Me.

Childhood Is Not From Birth To A Certain Age And At A Certain Age. The Child Is Grown, And Puts Away Childish Things. Childhood Is The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.

To A Young Poet Time Cannot Break The Bird's Wing From The Bird. Bird And Wing Together Go Down, One Feather. No Thing That Ever Flew, Not The Lark, Not You, Can Die As Others Do.

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare. Let All Who Prate Of Beauty Hold Their Peace, And Lay Them Prone Upon The Earth And Cease To Ponder On Themselves, The While They Stare At Nothing, Intricately Drawn Nowhere.

No One But Night, With Tears On Her Dark Face, Watches Beside Me In This Windy Place.