(1906-1989)
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"The river is within us; The sea is all about us;" Eliot, T. S. Four Quartets, The Dry Salvages, 20.
Ode Pour De Selection De Son Sepulchre FOR three years, out of key with his time, He strove to resuscitate the dead art Of poetry; to maintain "the sublime" In the old sense. Wrong from the start-- No hardly, but, seeing he had been born In a half savage country, out of date; Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn; Capaneus; trout for factitious bait; ἴδμεν γάρ τοι πάν πάνθ', όσ' ένι Τροίη Caught in the unstopped ear; Giving the rocks small lee-way The chopped seas held him, therefore, that year. His true Penelope was Flaubert, He fished by obstinate isles; Observed the elegance of Circe's hair Rather than the mottoes on sun-dials. Unaffected by "the march of events," He passed from men's memory in _l'an trentiesme De son eage_; the case presents No adjunct to the Muses' diadem. (...)