A black cat among roses,phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon,the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still.It is dazed with moonlight,contented with perfume…

The TaxiWhen I go away from youThe world beats deadLike a slackened drum.I call out for you against the jutted starsAnd shout into the ridges of the wind.Streets coming fast,One after the other,Wedge you away...

Apples of HesperidesGlinting golden through the trees,Apples of Hesperides!Through the moon-pierced warp of nightShoot pale shafts of yellow light,Swaying to the kissing breezeSwings the treasure, golden-gleaming,Apples of Hesperides!.Far and lofty yet they glimmer,Apples of Hesperides!Blinded...

Venus TransiensTell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli’s vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed...

Christ! What are patterns for?

All books are either dreams or swords,You can cut, or you can drug, with words.

Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.

The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room...

Vernal Equinox The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book;And the South Wind, washing through the room,Makes the candles quiver.My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the...

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart againstThe want of you;Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,And posting it.

For books are more than books, they are the lifeThe very heart and core of ages past,The reason why men lived and worked and died,The essence and quintessence of their lives.

You are ice and fire The touch of you burns my hands like snow