My Garden All Is Overblown With Roses,/

Things Were Not Tragic For Us Then, Because Although We Cared Passionately We Didn't Care Deeply.

I Loved You When Love Was Spring, And May, Loved You When Summer Deepened Into June, And Now When Autumn Yellows All The Leaves.

Not Seeing Is Half-believing.

Summer Makes A Silence After Spring.

Prose Is A Poor Thing, A Poor Inadequate Thing, Compared With Poetry Which Says So Much More In Shorter Time.