There was a meaning of you in every bird-call and flutter of wings and race of wild four-footed things across the open.

Every white alder-bush in the spring raised you up anew before me to madden me with vain longing, and every red sumach in the fall.
When I have sat here alone every book I have opened has had in it a meaning of you which the writer knew not of.

You are in all my forethoughts and my memories and my imaginations.

The future has your face, and the past.

My whole world is made up of you and my vain hunger.