Found death in life, may here find life in death."
EPITAPH FOR HIMSELF
(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,
Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,
Drops his blue-fring'd lids, and holds them close,
And hooting at the glorious sun in heaven
Cries out, "Where is it?"
FEARS IN SOLITUDE
That every poet is a fool,
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet."
"Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words
never quite equal the experience behind them."
CHARLES SIMIC
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