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All books are either dreams or swords.

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A black cat among roses,phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon,the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still.It i...more

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You are ice and fire The touch of you burns my hands like snow

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I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart againstThe want of you;Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,And posting it.

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All books are either dreams or swords,You can cut, or you can drug, with words.

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The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corner...more