All sins tend to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is damnation. - W. H. Auden

And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets Of the evening paper: "Our day is our loss, O show us History the operator, the Organiser, Time the refreshing river." <p> And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life That shapes the individual belly and orders The private nocturnal terror: "Did you not found the city state of the sponge,<p>"Raise the vast military empires of the shark And the tiger, establish the robin's plucky canton? Intervene. Descend as a dove or A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend."

The friends who met here and embraced are gone,
Each to his own mistake;

Shall memory restore
The steps and the shore,
The face and the meeting place;