“What are heavy? sea-sand and sorrow.What are brief? today and tomorrow.What are frail? spring blossoms and youth.What are deep? the ocean and truth.”

“A Robin said: The Spring will never come,And I shall never care to build again.A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,My sap will never stir for sun or rain.The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,I neither care to wax nor care to wane.The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,Because earth's rivers cannot fill the main. —When Springtime came, red Robin built a nest,And trilled a lover's song in sheer delight.Grey hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with mightClothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,Dimpled his blue, yet thirsted evermore.”

“Choose love not in the shallows but in the deep.”

“Golden head by golden head,Like two pigeons in one nestFolded in each other's wings,They lay down in their curtained bed:Like two blossoms on one stem,Like two flakes of new-fall'n snow,Like two wands of ivoryTipped with gold for awful kings.Moon and stars gazed in at them,Wind sang to them lullaby,Lumbering owls forbore to fly,Not a bat flapped to and froRound their rest:Cheek to cheek and breast to breastLocked together in one nest.”

“Somewhere or other there must surely beThe face not seen, the voice not heard,The heart that not yet - never yet — ah me!Made answer to my word.Somewhere or other, may be near or far;Past land and sea, clean out of sight;Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the starThat tracks her night by night.Somewhere or other, may be far or near;With just a wall, a hedge, between;With just the last leaves of the dying yearFallen on a turf grown green. ”

“My heart is like a singing birdWhose nest is in a water'd shoot;My heart is like an apple-treeWhose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shellThat paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all these,Because my love is come to me. Raise me a daïs of silk and down;Hang it with vair and purple dyes;Carve it in doves and pomegranates,And peacocks with a hundred eyes;Work it in gold and silver grapes,In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;Because the birthday of my lifeIs come, my love is come to me.”

“We must not look at goblin men,We must not buy their fruits:Who knows upon what soil they fedTheir hungry thirsty roots?”