Poems should be like pins which prick the skin of boredom and leave a glow equal in its pride to the gate of the sadist who stuck the pin and walked away
She released her grievances like handfuls of birdseed: They are there, and they are gone.
No one can please a man who is not at peace with himself.
Here the first of the things that happened, happened. The first of the things important enough to notice and to remember afterward, among a great many trifling but kindred ones that were not. Some so...
A 'sadist' of her kind is an artist in evil, which a wholly wicked person could not be...