Life is the Master, the keen and grim destroyer of beauty:
Death is a quiet and deep reliever, where soul upon soul
And wizened and thwarted body on body are loosed from their duty
Of living, and sink in a bottomless, edgeless impalpable hole.
Dead, they can see far above them, as if from the depth of a pit,
Black on the glare small figures that twist and are shrivelled in it.
The Singing Furies
The yellow sky grows vivid as the sun: