I Never Deny Poems When They Come;

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, Upon Your Face. You Shine, Beloved, You And The Moon. But Which Is The Reflection?

Art Is Like Politics. Any Theory Carried Too Far Ends In Sterility, And Freshness Is Only Gained By Following Some Other Line.

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 Lover Hiding, But She Guesses He Is Near, And The Sliding Of The Water Seems The Stroking Of A Dear Hand Upon Her.

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.