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 mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.

Thoughts on his own death, like the distant roll of thunder at a picnic.

Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral

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.

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.

The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living.

To save your world you asked this man to die; would this man, could he see you now, ask why?