Let us begin to understand the argument.There is a solution to everything: Science.
The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
Culture is the study of perfection, and the constant effort to achieve it.
Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.
There is a calm for you where men and womenUnroll the chill precision of moving feet.
The dusk runs down the lane driven like hail;Far off a precise whistle is escheatTo the dark; and then the towering weak and pale.
There’s precious little to say between day and dark,Perhaps a few words on the implacable willOf time sailing like a magic barqueOr something as fine for the amenities.
We are afraid that we have not lived.We are not afraid of dying.
The day’s at end and there’s nowhere to go,Draw to the fire, even this fire is dying;Get up and once again politely lyingInvite the ladies toward the mistletoe.
For often at Church I’ve seen the stained high glassPour out the Virgin and Saints, twist and untwistThe mortal youth of Christ astride an ass.
My darling boy whom I shall never know,My son, I love you in my deepest fears.
For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.