But once in a while the odd thing happens,Once in a while the dream comes true,And the whole pattern of life is altered,Once in a while the moon turns blue.

Our whisper woke no clocks,We kissed and I was gladAt everything you did,Indifferent to thoseWho sat with hostile eyesIn pairs on every bed,Arms round each other's neck,Inert and vaguely sad.

The Vision of Eros is, in my opinion, a religious vision. It is an indirect manifestation of the glory of the personal creator through a personal creature.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;For nothing now can ever come to any good.

My second thoughts condemnAnd wonder how I dareTo look you in the eye.What right have I to swearEven at one a.m.To love you till I die?Earth meets too many crimesFor fibs to interest her;If I can give my word,Forgiveness can recurAny number of timesIn Time. Which is absurd.Tempus fugit. Quite.So finish up your drink.All flesh is grass. It is. But who on earth can thinkWith heavy heart or lightOf what will come of this?

For love: a poet. For romance: a journalist.

We cannot be deaf to the question: 'Do I love this world so well that I have to know how it ends?

He presses my hand and he says he loves me, Which I find an admirable peculiarity.

As mile by mile is seenNo trespasser's reproach,And love's best glasses reachNo fields but are his own.