Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss:
My own sweet Alice, we must die.
There's somewhat in this world amiss
Shall be unriddled by and by.
There's somewhat flows to us in life,
But more is taken quite away.
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,
That we may die the self-same day.
Alfred (Lord) Tennyson
Time turns the old days to derision, our loves into corpses or wives; and marriage and death and division make barren our lives.
A C Swinburne
So long as the system of competition in the production and exchange of the means of life goes on, the degradation of the arts will go on; and if that system is to last for ever, then art is doomed, and will surely die; that is to say, civilization will die.
Our aspirations are our possibilities.
Poetry is simply the most beautiful, impressive, and widely effective mode of saying things.