There is something hard in the world, unkind, stubborn, blasted black as a broken fingernail placed in danger of a too-great thwack! Every pebble is a pain worn smooth by lovely water waiting only for its proper shoe its hidden niche to strike! Pain . . . pain is greater than the imagination. Pain defeats the flow of poetry, rills its lyric surface, squats in its depths unperturbed by beauty. Sweetly the poem pretends otherwise, ineffectually but sweetly singing against the stone's grain just as though no sob would come. But the stone is there, hard. Death is a measure and settles it all at last. No hand, no voice defeats death. At least it is a cease from pain. If imagination then could speak . . . but then, it cannot. So it is only with broken voice with breath inswept between everlasting griefs the poem is known. Remember me, with all your troubles, remember me-- that's how most of ‘em begin sprinting sprained until the flowering baton is passed hand to hand and voice to voice and you and I are left in our pain sweetly with nothing of our own to sing but "Remember me."