April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory out of desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in a forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.
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We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.
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Unreal city, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,...
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Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind.
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In a minute there is time for decision and revisions that a minute will reverse.
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The time of the seasons and the constellations The time of milking and the time of harvest...
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And the wind shall say Here were decent godless people. Their only monument the asphalt road. And a thousand lost golf balls.
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In the small circle of pain within the skull You still shall tramp and tread one endless round Of thought, to justify your action to yourselves, Weaving a fiction which unravels as you weave, Pacing forever in the hell of make-believe Which never is belief: this is your fate on earth And we must think no further of you.
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An election is coming. Universal peace is declared and the foxes have sincere interest in prolonging the lives of the poultry.
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So the lover must struggle for words.
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What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
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Television is a medium of entertainment which permits millions of people to listen to the same joke at the same time, and yet remain lonesome
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If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?
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We shall not cease from our exploration And at the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time
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Moving between the legs of tables and of chairs, rising or falling, grasping at kisses and toys, advancing boldly, sudden to take alarm, retreating to the corner of arm and knee, eager to be reassured, taking pleasure in the fragrant brilliance of the Christmas tree.
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Webster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin;...
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Immature poets imitate mature poets steal.
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Humankind cannot stand very much reality.
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I take as metaphysical poetry that in which what is ordinarily apprehensible only by thought is brought within the grasp of feeling, or that in which what is ordinarily only felt is transformed into thought without ceasing to be feeling.
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The last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason.
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We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in but its fitting in is a test of its value -- a test, it is true, which can only be slowly and cautiously applied, for we are none of us infallible judges of conformity.
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This is the way the world endsThis is the way the world endsThis is the way the world endsNot with a bang but a whimper.
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The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying.
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It is impossible to design a system so perfect that no one needs to be good.
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In the vain laughter of folly, wisdom hears half its applause
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It is impossible to say just what I mean!
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Human kind cannot bear much reality.
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Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
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Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity
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The last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason
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