“She is a compulsive poet first, a stylist second”
Richard Eberhart, New York Times
When beauty breaks and falls asunder
I feel no grief for it, but wonder.
When love, like a frail shell, lies broken,
I keep no chip of it for token.
I never had a man for friend
Who did not know that love must end.
I never had a girl for lover
Who could discern when love was over.
What the wise doubt, the fool believes–
Who is it, then, that love deceives?