It is at the edge of a petal that love waits. |
It is at the edge of a petal that love waits. |
It is not what you say that matters but the manner in which you say it; there lies the secret of the ages. |
It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is cheering, the crowd is laughing in detail permanently, seriously without thought. |
It was the love of love, the love that swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of nature, of people, of animals, a love engendering gentleness and goodness that moved me and that I saw in you. |
It's the anarchy of poverty delights me. |
Life is valuable -- when completed by the imagination. And then only. |
Love you? It's
a fire in the blood, willy-nilly! |
Love you? It's a fire in the blood, willy-nilly! |
Minds like beds always made up, (more stony than a shore) unwilling or unable. |
My surface is myself.
Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots. |
Night is a room
darkened for lovers. . . . |
No woman is virtuous, who does not give herself to her lover |
Nothing whips my blood like verse. |
O Marvelous! what new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity. |