Would you care to know the real tragedy of poetry? It is that poetry is, nevertheless, a privilege of aristocratic birth, and that all privileges lead directly to the guillotine.
“Thy gracious ways,
O Lady of my heart, have
O’er all my thought their golden glamour cast;
As amber torch-flames, where strange men-at-arms
Tread softly ‘neath the damask shield of night,
Rise from the flowing steel in part reflected,
So on my mailed thought that with thee goeth,
Though dark the way, a golden glamour falleth.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: Of Incense”