Rapture's Self Is Three Parts Sorrow.

Great Emotion Always Tends To Become Rhythmic, And Out Of That Tendency The Forms Of Art Have Been Evolved. Art Becomes Artificial Only When The Forms Take Precedence Over The Emotion.

How Loud Clocks Can Tick When A Room Is Empty, And One Is Alone!

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.

Can You See Through The Night, Woman, That You Stare So Upon It? Man, What Sparks Do Your Eyes Follow In The Smouldering Darkness?

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 Point. The Poem Will Not Be Denied; To Refuse To Write It Would Be A Greater Torture. It Tears Its Way Out Of The Brain, Splintering And Breaking Its Passage, And Leaves That Organ In The State Of A Jelly-fish When The Task Is Done.