A soul. A soul is nothing. Can you see it, smell it, touch it? No. - Stephen Vincent Benét

The iron ice stung like a goad, Slashing the torn shoes from my feet, And all the air was bitter sleet. And all the land was cramped with snow, Steel-strong and fierce and glimmering wan, Like pale plains of obsidian. — And yet I strove — and I was fire And ice — and fire and ice were one In one vast hunger of desire.

Dreaming men are haunted men.

Rest you, my enemy,
Slain without fault,
Life smacks but tastelessly
Lacking your salt!
Stuck in a bog whence naught
May catapult me,
Come from the grave, long-sought,
Come and insult me!