Coming down from the cruel high plains of our beginnings
To stand in the mire of Auschwitz,
With his touchstone of effrontery
Persuades us still and again of ascent.
Through the burning glass of the screen
In the bone-ash cup of his intense integrity,
Assayed, parted, dross falls away.
They don't make them like that any more.
A mind of winter is a terrible thing to waste
3 hours ago