We were riding through the frozen fields in a wagon at dawn. A red wing rose in the darkness. And suddenly a hare ran across the road. One of us pointed to it with his hand. That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive. Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture. O my love, where are they, where are they going The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles. I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.
-"Encounter," Czeslaw Milosz, The Collected Poems, 1931-1987
...They thought death was worth it, but I Have a self to recover, a queen. Is she dead, is she sleeping? Where has she been, With her lion-red body, her wings of glass? Now she is flying. More terrible than she ever was, red Scar in the sky, red comet Over the engine that killed her-The mausoleum, the wax house. -"Stings." Sylvia Plath, Ariel