A weed is but an unloved flower.

We two make banquets of the plainest fareIn every cup we find the thrill of pleasure... For us life always moves with lilting measureWe two, we two, we make our world, our pleasure

Moon and SeaYou are the moon, dear love, and I the sea:The tide of hope swells high within my breast,And hides the rough dark rocks of life's unrestWhen your fond eyes smile near in perigee.But when that loving face is turned from me,Low falls the tide, and the grim rocks appear,And earth's dim coast-line seems a thing to fear.You are the moon, dear one, and I the sea.

Love much. Earth has enough of bitter in it.

There is nothing ridiculous in love.

Thou canst not force my soul to wish thee ill, That is the only evil that can kill.

And so for me there is no sting of death, And so the grave has lost its victory. It is but crossing-with abated breath And white, set face-a little strip of sea To find the loved ones waiting on the shore, More beautiful, more precious than before.

But now I know that there is no killing A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death. There is no hushing, there is no stilling That which is part of your life and breath. You may bury it deep, and leave behind you The land, the people that knew your slain; It will push the sods from its grave, and find you On wastes of water or desert plain.

Love is the impulse which directs the world, And all things know it and obey its power. Man, in the maelstrom of his passions whirled; The bee that takes the pollen to the flower; The earth, uplifting her bare, pulsing breast To fervent kisses of the amorous sun;-- Each but obeys creative Love's behest, Which everywhere instinctively is done.