Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these. She a window flower. And he a winter breeze.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart.

It is the same life that emerges in joy through the dust of the earth into numberless waves of flower.

Poetry should be common in experience but uncommon in books.

The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength. To feel the earth as rough to all my length.

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