The tree the tempest with a crash of woodThrows down in front of us is not to barOur passage to our journey's end for good,But just to ask us who we think we are.

It is absurd to think that the only way to tell if a poem is lasting is to wait and see if it lasts. The right reader of a good poem can tell the moment it strikes him that he has taken an immortal wound-that he will never get over it.

I end not far from my going forth,By picking the faded blue;Of the last remaining aster flower,To carry again to you.

Summoning artists to participate, In the august occasions of the state; Seems something artists ought to celebrate,Today is for my cause a day of days.

That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.

Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.