He Dies the Deepest Who Dies Alone

Robert Lowell, the blue-blood Brahmin Poet of Beacon Hill; [born to it, at least] . He might have remained so had he made sufficient monies and attempts at the Harvard social graces to comfortably live out his life there. The chap died, miserable & reviled, having eaten his full measure of bitter, in 1977. Now he is just another dead, white, male, poet, Yankee, and so his fall into the waters of our River Lethe. Yet, for a DeWhiMaPoYa, his writing was not bereft of virtues. His eye, ever rancorous, scanned the hills of Boston, and saw Hell. Then he married, and lived Hell. Two Guidean Verities you might appreciate?