Always the dead seem unsuccessful: as though they had spoiled their photos they smile with second meanings into our pain: so, after all, it was that they were after. The day they died a mother added another arch to her church, now she will look on victory as something bright, but secular. And where in the cleanest landscape we, hardly known to ourselves, are running to some excitement like the centre of light— a child has turned, a hole in his head. The eyes where we stood are dark and the low earth, with careful science, begins to remove all traces of those in whom we might have been justified. |