She walks in the loveliness she made, Between the apple-blossom and the water — She walks among the patterned pied brocade, Each flower her son, and … - Vita Sackville-West

She wondered which wounds went deeper: the jagged wounds of reality, or the profound invisible bruises of the imagination?

The country habit has me by the heart, For he's bewitched for ever who has seen, Not with his eyes but with his vision, Spring Flow down the woods and stipple leaves with sun, As each man knows the life that fits him best, The shape it makes in his soul, the tune, the tone, And after ranging on a tentative flight Stoops like the merlin to the constant lure.

The dusk is heavy with the wine's warm load; Here the long sense of classic measure cures The spirit weary of its difficult pain; Here the old Bacchic piety endures, Here the sweet legends of the world remain.