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.

But You, You Foolish Girl, You Have Gone Home To A Leaky Castle Across The Sea To Lie Awake In Linen Smelling Of Lavender, And Hear The Nightingale, And Long For Me.

A Grave Is Such A Quiet Place.

The Soul Can Split The Sky In Two And Let The Face Of God Shine Through.

Sweet Love, Sweet Thorn, When Lightly To My Heart. I Took Your Thrust, Whereby I Since Am Slain, And I Lie Disheveled In The Grass Apart, A Sodden Thing Bedrenched By Tears And Rain.