“what time is it?its is by every stara different time,and each most falsely true ...”

“For surely as each November has its April, mysteries only are significant; and one mystery-of-mysteries creates them all: nothing false and possible is love(who's imagined,therefore limitless)love's to giving as to keeping's give;as yes is to if,love is to yes”

“in time of daffodils(who knowthe goal of living is to grow)forgetting why,remember howin time of lilacs who proclaimthe aim of waking is to dream,remember so(forgetting seem)in time of roses(who amazeour now and here with paradise)forgetting if,remember yesin time of all sweet things beyondwhatever mind may comprehend,remember seek(forgetting find)and in a mystery to be(when time from time shall set us free)forgetting me,remember me”

“Nobody loses all the time.”

“If"If freckles were lovely, and day was night, And measles were nice and a lie warn't a lie, Life would be delight,-- But things couldn't go right For in such a sad plight I wouldn't be I. If earth was heaven and now was hence, And past was present, and false was true, There might be some sense But I'd be in suspense For on such a pretense You wouldn't be you. If fear was plucky, and globes were square, And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee Things would seem fair,-- Yet they'd all despair, For if here was there We wouldn't be we.”

“Time cannot children,poets,lovers tell-measure imagine,mystery,a kiss-not though mankind would rather know than feel”

“nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands-excerpt of #35 from "100 Selected Poems”