Death is the mother of beauty - Wallace Stevens

A dead shepherd brought tremendous chords from hell<p>And bad the sheep carouse. Or so they said. Children in love with them brought early flowers And scattered them about, no two alike.

The wind in which the dead leaves blow. Here I inhale profounder strength And as I am, I speak and move And things are as I think they are And say they are on the blue guitar.

In the world of words, the imagination is one of the forces of nature.