T.S. Elliot
[Poet and critic, b. 1888, St. Louis, Missouri, d. 1965, London.]

 There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).  
 What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images.