Everything goes quickly, everything is torn from the night, from fatigue, from the despondency that we feel shooting in this deaf violence, this instinctive brutality.
“That fair far spear of light now lays
Its long gold shaft upon the waters.
Ah! might I pass upon its rays
To where it gleams beyond the waters,
Or might my troubled heart be fed
Upon the frail clear light there shed,
Then were my pain at last allay’d.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: The Spear”