T.S. Eliot

whispers of immortality

Webster was much possessed by death and saw the skull beneath the skin; And breastless creatures under ground leaned backward with a lipless grin. Daffodil bulbs instead of balls stared from the sockets of the eyes! He knew that thought clings round dead limbs tightening its lusts and luxuries. Donne, I suppose, was such another who found no substitute for sense; To seize and clutch and penetrate, expert beyond experience, He knew the anguish of the marrow the ague of the skeleton; No contact possible to flesh allayed the fever of the bone. * * * Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye is underlined for emphasis; Uncorseted, her friendly bust gives promise of pneumatic bliss. The couched Brazilian jaguar compels the scampering marmoset with subtle effluence of cat; Grishkin has a maisonette; The sleek Brazilian jaguar does not in its arboreal gloom distil so rank a feline smell as Grishkin in a drawing-room. And even the Abstract Entities circumambulate her charm; But our lot crawls between dry ribs to keep our metaphysics warm.

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