“Under a row of trees a young girl raises her green hand,
Surprised by her plant-like skin, she looks, and eventually removes her silk gloves.”

“A light he was to no one but himself
Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
A quiet light, and then not even that.
He consigned to the moon,—such as she was,
So late-arising,—to the broken moon
As better than the sun in any case
For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
His icicles along the wall to keep;
And slept. ”

“Will there be love?
And what kind -
a big love or a crumb of love?”

“It’s presence rises, in memory, or from the steamy memory of the grave. It is not gone, not by a long shot. It is with me in the present hour. It will be with me in the grave.”