You have made The cement of your churches out of tears And ashes, and the fabric will not stand. - Edwin Arlington Robinson

Are we no greater than the noise we make
Along one blind atomic pilgrimage
Whereon by crass chance billeted we go
Because our brains and bones and cartilage
Will have it so?

No matter what we are, and what we sing,
Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,</br>We people on the pavement looked at him:</br> He was a gentleman from sole to crown,</br>Clean favored, and imperially slim.</br>And he was always quietly arrayed,</br>And he was always human when he talked;</br>But still he fluttered pulses when he said,</br>"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.</br>And he was rich—yes, richer than a king— </br>And admirably schooled in every grace:</br>In fine, we thought that he was everything</br>To make us wish that we were in his place.</br>So on we worked, and waited for the light,</br>And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;</br>And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,</br>Went home and put a bullet through his head. </br>