Sweet Love, that art so bitter

God by God flits past in thunder, till His glories turn to shades; God to God bears wondering witness how His gospel flames and fades. More was each of these, yet they were, than man their servant seemed: Dead are all of these, and man …

There was a bad poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff. But the public, though dull, Has not quite such a skull As belongs to believers in Clough.

Rhyme is the native condition of lyric verse in English; a rhymeless lyric is a maimed thing.

I can truly say with Shelley that I have been fortunate in friendships: that I have been no less fortunate in my enemies than in my friends.

The small dark body's Lesbian loveliness That held the fire eternal.

Maiden, and mistress of the months and stars Now folded in the flowerless fields of heaven.