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

 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. 
 There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).