First she starved herself of love, which meant also life; then of poetry in deference to what she thought her religion demanded.

Love, the poet said, is woman's whole existence.

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice.