> "Consider, Mr. Eliot . . ." by Roger White
If it is true that naught avails,
No love so strong but that it fails,
All beauty not for long prevails,
Nor cure is found for sore hearts' ails
And none is placed beyond Death's reach:
Why, Prufrock, then resist the peach?
The ruthless stalker will not care
Whether, or how, you part your hair.