"Old Song
Thy absence overflows the rose
From every petal gleam
Such words as it were vain to close
Such tears as cloud the dream
So eyes that mind thee fair and gone
Bemused at waking spend
On skies that gild thy remote dawn
More hopes than here attend
The burden of the rose will fade
Sped in the spectrum's kiss
But here the thorn in sharpened shade
Weathers all loneliness."
--Hart Crane
"Right so, though that my witte were a pilgrim,
And wente fer from home, he cam again."
--Hoccleve
"None of us is really alive now."
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