H.D., “A Poet in the Wilderness: Songs of Anacreon”: “Yet the poet is gone. Though we might wish to touch his hand, to make his humanity as important as his divinity, it is not possible. I should like to have touched his hand, to have counted his imperfections, to have said (to lure him to some outbreak of fine, poetic fervor), ‘Yes! all that, poetry is not enough – humanity is the thing that matters – as below, so are the gods above, let us get down, underneath things – learn, in humility, true greatness.’ Ah – but he would not let me. He is gone. There floats this legend through old textbooks, a date, an anecdote, but he, himself, is gone. He is gone, cruel in his immortality. He has left us – he has left me, and before me fingering this little volume, there is a path, set with small white paving-stones, a little edge of white marble, laid in long, even, slender, graceful blocks, stone blocks, imperceptible curves, two steps, columns, very small, very perfect.”