Amy Lowell

Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.

I am tired, beloved, of chafing my heart against the want of you; of squeezing it into little ink drops, and posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire of the great moon.

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.

I feel sorry for generations of Labour voters and supporters who must look and wonder what on earth has gone wrong and what Labour is for.

The model should only serve the very private function for the painter of providing the starting point for his excitement.

Why do men fight who were born to be brothers?