Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness...
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, and I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, and in short, I was afraid.
Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place...
I can connect Nothing with nothing.
We ask only to be reassured About the noises in the cellar And the window that should not have been open.
Our emotions Are only “incidents” In the effort to keep day and night together.
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair-.
It is worth dying to find out what life is.
The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.
After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions Guides us by vanities.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives.
There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience.
A good deal of confusion could be avoided, if we refrained from setting before the group, what can be the aim only of the individual; and before society as a whole, what can be the aim only of the group.
The chief danger about Paris is that it is such a strong stimulant.
All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance.
You will find that you survive humiliation. And that’s an experience of incalculable value.
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.
The usual dog about the town is much inclined to play the clown.
We are not here to triumph by fighting, by strata gem, or by resistance, not to fight with beasts as men. We have fought the beast and have conquered. We have only to conquer now, by suffering. This is the easier victory.
There are flood and drought over the eyes and in the mouth, dead water and dead sand contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil gapes at the vanity of toil, laughs without mirth. This is the death of the earth.