On The Neck Of The Young Man

Moon! Moon! I Am Prone Before You. Pity Me,and Drench Me In Loneliness.

Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon A Flower, Winking With Its Painted Wings, Happy In The Hour.

Poetry Is The Most Concentrated Form Of Literature; It Is The Most Emotionalized And Powerful Way In Which Thought Can Be Presented.

I Am Tired, Beloved, Of Chafing My Heart Against The Want Of You; Of Squeezing It Into Little Inkdrops, And Posting It.

Guarded Within The Old Red Wall's Embrace, Marshalled Like Soldiers In Gay Company, The Tulips Stand Arrayed. Here Infantry Wheels Out Into The Sunlight.