To save your world you asked this man to die; would this man, could he see you now, ask why?
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living.
Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.
One rational voice is dumb: over a grave The household of Impulse mourns one dearly loved. Sad is Eros, builder of cities, And weeping anarchic Aphrodite.
Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral
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