«Dying, I’ll not say: "I was". / No regrets, I’ll not cast blame. / There are greater things in this world / Than love’s storm, and passion’s game. But you — wing-beat against my chest, / Fresh, guilty cause of my inspiration — / You I command to: — Be! / My obedience – »
«I’m no impostor — I’m home. / I’m no servant — I brought no leaven. / I’m — your passion, your Sunday rest, / Your seventh day, your seventh heaven. They hung millstones round my neck, / On earth, they flung me a penny. / — Lover! — Surely you know? / I am your swa»
«To kiss the brow — eases all anxiety. / I kiss the brow. To kiss the eyes — cures insomnia’s misery. / I kiss the eyes. To kiss the lips — one’s no longer thirsty. / I kiss the lips. To kiss the brow — erases memory. / I kiss the brow.»
«After a night of insomnia, the body slows: / Dear, but not his, not anyone’s — to have. / In sluggish veins the moan of arrows, / You smile at everyone, like a seraph. After a night of insomnia, arms hang low, / You’re indifferent to friend or enemy, / In every random sound there’...»