There are three things, after all, that a poem must reach: the eye, the ear, and what we may call the heart or the mind. It is the most important of all to reach the heart of the reader.

It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orch-ard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.

The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to the ocean- Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition.

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

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.