I went travelling to a wreck of a place. There were three gates standing ajar and a fence that broke off. It was not the wreck of anything else in particular. A place came there and crashed. After that it remained the wreck of a place. Light fell on it.
“Bid the warbling Nine retire:
Venus, string thy servant’s lyre:
Love shall be my endless theme:
Pleasure shall triumph over fame:
And when these maxims I decline,
Apollo, may thy fate be mine:
May I grasp at empty praise;
And the lose the nymph, to gain the bays.”
Matthew Prior | “In Imitation of Anacreon”