No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were. …
In Guernica
In Guernica the dead children Were laid out in order upon the sidewalk, In their white starched dresses, In their pitiful white dresses. On their foreheads and breasts Are the little holes where death came in As thunder, while they were playing Their important summer games. Do not weep for them, madre. They are gone …
A Dark Feathered Art 