When my own brother died, I thought—well, no,
I didn’t think, or do. I just did not.
We know that when a young man dies we ought
to make a dirge of it, to rise and go
singing that bleak and elegiac rot
that manners make the requisite of woe.
Only, having known it, now I know
there is no song. Those still alive, our lot
is not a lot. Divide by zero. Take
the square root of a negative, assume
the dead are asymptotes, each tangent to
our lives, if infinite. We rise and make
breakfast, time, the best of it, make room,
make money, love, make jokes, make plans, make do.
Jacob Bacharach 
this is why i left ..”dew “..after mr fundamental’s comment two posts back , i feel faint , well said , .
Crowley-esque word play:
http://hermetic.com/crowley/libers/lib333.html
Thank you.
Gorgeous, sir.
Sad-making for two reasons.
One, intended.
The other, unintended.
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 —
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hugh-selwyn-mauberly-part-i/