Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare.

I Do Not Think There Is A Woman In Whom The Roots Of Passion Shoot Deeper Than In Me.

And Her Voice Is A String Of Colored Beads, Or Steps Leading Into The Sea.

A Person Who Publishes A Book Willfully Appears Before The Populace With His Pants Down. If It Is A Good Book Nothing Can Hurt Him. If It Is A Bad Book Nothing Can Help Him.

... But The Rain Is Full Of Ghosts Tonight

Heap Not On This Mound Roses That She Loved So Well; Why Bewilder Her With Roses That She Cannot See Or Smell.