So, talking with my first wife,At the dark end of evening, when she leanedAnd smiled at me, with blue eyes weaving websOf finest fire, revolving me in scarlet,--Calling to mind remote and small successionsOf countless other evenings ending so,--I smiled, and met her kiss, and wished her dead

Here too was the terrifying fixed curve of the infinite, the creeping curve of logic which at least must become the final signpost at the edge of nothing. After that - the deluge. The great white light of annihilation. The bright flash of death... ("Mr. Arcularis")

Death is never an ending, death is a change;Death is beautiful, for death is strange;Death is one dream out of another flowing.

Death is one dream out of another flowing.

Should I not hear, as I lie down in dust, The horns of glory blowing above my burial?