We Are The Ghosts Of The Singing

Time Is A Dream ... A Destroying Dream; It Lays Great Cities In Dust, It Fills The Seas; It Covers The Face Of Beauty, And Tumbles Walls.

Ghostly Above Us In Lamplight The Towers Gleam ... And After A While They Will Fall To Dust And Rain; Or Else We Will Tear Them Down With Impatient Hands; And Hew Rock Out Of The Earth, And Build Them Again.

It Is Precisely The Sort Of Thing I Am Always Trying To Do In My Writing -- To Present My Unhappy Reader With A Wide-ranged Chaos -- Of Actions And Reactions, Thoughts, Memories And Feelings -- In The Vain Hope That At The End He Will See That The Whole Thing Represents Only One Moment, One Feeling, One Person. A Raging, Trumpeting Jungle Of Associations, And Then I Announce At The End Of It, With A Gesture Of Despair, "this Is I!

Separate We Come, And Separate We Go, And This Be It Known, Is All That We Know.

Death Is Never An Ending, Death Is A Change; Death Is Beautiful, For Death Is Strange; Death Is One Dream Out Of Another Flowing.