The poet lights the light and fades away. But the light goes on and on.
Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.
I confess that I love him, I rejoice that I love him, I thank the maker of Heaven and Earth that gave him to me. The exultation floods me.
The past is not a package one can lay away.
Dying is a wild night and a new road.
There is no frigate like a book.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
I would like more sisters, that the taking out of one, might not leave such stillness.
If your Nerve, deny you – Go above your Nerve.
There is no Silence in the Earth – so silent As that endured Which uttered, would discourage Nature And haunt the World.
Why should we censure Othello when the Criterion Lover says, “Thou shalt have no other Gods before Me”?
I’ll tell you how the Sun rose.
That love is all there is, Is all we know of love.
Faith-is the pierless bridge supporting what We see unto the scene that we do not.
I work to drive the awe away, yet awe impels the work.
Eden is that old-fashioned house we dwell in every day Without suspecting our abode until we drive away.
People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.
I measure every grief I meet with narrow, probing eyes – I wonder if it weighs like mine – or has an easier size.
One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.
You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog as large as myself.