Then they're more in this series,
but I don't think it ends even as well as it begins
because the last four or five poems
try to find an answer to this question,
why do little boys die.
I don't know exactly what that answer is.
It's easier to present the question
than to find the kind of answer in a case
like this or sometimes ratings of the classics,
as they're called can suggest a light lighter thing.
I tried to write lately.
These are unpublished some less serious epitaphs, little poems
of just two lines, which are about immoral ladies who
are dead.
And they were called epitaphs for light ladies, epitaphs
for the light ladies.
These aren't mimeographed, but they're clear I think the.
Very short.
One goes, "Once lovely Chloe here
asleep in clay, warmed with warm flesh whatever place she lay.
And now so long a bed yet cold as stone.
And so on practiced at it, so alone.
Or" A second, "lie light on the light lady somber alone.
She's much converted now, keeps to one home.
Or Aggie who bragged she gave her flesh to none
laid with the common dead as much undone."
I guess she wasn't a light lady, another kind.
"Or the whole world takes her to its bed below
as she took all the world or nearly so."
[LAUGHTER] Or a different one in this kind of series.
This is an epitaph for a poet.
"His life was scrawny, but his verse sublime."
That final word as usual for the rhyme.
[LAUGHTER] Or Maybe let's see this isn't finished.
"His life was Meager, but his verse sublime."
Here's seven words for truth, the eighth for rhyme.
Something like that.