The gipsy tents are on the down

My soul is like this cloudy, flaming opal ring.

Criticism is properly the rod of divination: a hazel switch for the discovery of buried treasure, not a birch twig for the castigation of offenders.

And I would have, now love is over, An end to all, an end: I cannot, having been your lover, Stoop to become your friend!

The gray-green stretch of sandy grass, Indefinitely desolate; A sea of lead, a sky of slate; Already autumn in the air, alas! One stark monotony of stone, The long hotel, acutely white,

Here in a little lonely room I am master of earth and sea, And the planets come to me.

What we ask of him is, that he should find out for us more than we can find out for ourselves.... He must have the passion of a lover.