No poet, no artist of any sort, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. - T.S.Eliot
A captive, alone in a dungeon I dwell,
Entombed in the stillness and murk of a cell.
Outside, in the courtyard, in wild, frenzied play,
My comrade, an eagle, has pounced on his prey.
Then, leaving it, at me he looks as if he
In thought and in purpose at one were with me.
He looks at me so, and he utters a cry.
'"Tis time," he is saying, "from here let us fly!
"We're both wed to freedom, so let us away
To where lonely storm clouds courageously stray,
Where turbulent seas rush to merge with the sky.
Where only the winds dare to venture and I!.."