The wild bee reels from bough to bough
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing,
Now in a lily-cup, and now
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,
In his wandering;
Sit closer love:  it was here I trow
I made that vow,

Swore that two lives should be like one
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,
As long as the sunflower sought the sun,—
It shall be, I said, for eternity
‘Twixt you and me!
Dear friend, those times are over and done;
Love’s web is spun.

Look upward where the poplar trees
Sway and sway in the summer air,
Here in the valley never a breeze
Scatters the thistledown, but there
Great winds blow fair
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,
And the wave-lashed leas.

Look upward where the white gull screams,
What does it see that we do not see?
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams
On some outward voyaging argosy,—
Ah! can it be
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!
How sad it seems.

Sweet, there is nothing left to say
But this, that love is never lost,
Keen winter stabs the ******* of May
Whose crimson roses burst his frost,
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a harbour in some bay,
And so we may.

And there is nothing left to do
But to kiss once again, and part,
Nay, there is nothing we should rue,
I have my beauty,—you your Art,
Nay, do not start,
One world was not enough for two
Like me and you.

"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)

If the earth becomes paradise,
Of what use will heaven be to us,
And if the earth is a bad place,
Why then was it given to us?

If then i was created with a choice,
I can't remember choosing the earth.
Why will anyone ignore the beauty,
For a place where all efforts end in death?

If it was Adam's sin that brought pain,
Why wasn't i given the same opportunity?
He was born into a world of comfort,
I am born into a world engulfed in immorarity.

He didnt have to struggle with his flesh,
I struggle with my flesh daily.
If he wasn't forgiven and reinstated,
How then am i sure of mercy?

I have never seen the other planets,
I only know what the scientists say;
If truely there was some other place,
Humans would go there long before today;

If there is a place called hell,
Why aren't the "devils" already there?
What logic is there in keeping them with us?
Now they create burdens too hard to bear.

If we are allowed to make the earth paradise,
Of what use will heaven be to us?
If sin is the reason why we won't go to heaven,
What will it take God to free us of its curse?

If i didn't have a choice of where to be born,
I shouldn't choose where to spend eternity,
Being born with sin wasn't our choice to make,
Therefore it shouldn't be the problem of humanity.