Time present and time past / are both perhaps present in time future.
As we grow older, the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated of dead and living.
One of the surest tests of the superiority or inferiority of a poet is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate mature poets steal bad poets deface what they take and good poets make it into something better or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique utterly different than that from which it is torn the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion. A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time or alien in language or diverse in interest.
At the still point, there the dance is.
Not less of love, but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the Future as well as the past.
You have to risk going too far to discover just how far you can really go.
It is not enough to understand what we ought to be, unless we know what we are; and we do not understand what we are, unless we know what we ought to be.
To believe in the supernatural is not simply to believe that after living a successful, material, and fairly virtuous life here one will continue to exist in the best-possible substitute for this world, or that after living a starved and stunted life here one will be compensated with all the good things one has gone without: it is to believe that the supernatural is the greatest reality here and now.
One thing you cannot know: The sudden extinction of every alternative, The unexpected crash of the iron cataract. You do not know what hope is, until you have lost it. You only know what it is not to hope: You do not know what it is to have hope taken from you Or to fling it away, to join the legion of the hopeless Unrecognized by other men, though sometimes by each other.
It is obvious that we can no more explain a passion to a person who has never experienced it than we can explain light to the blind.
If you want it you must obtain it by great labor.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter.
In a world of fugitives, the person taking the opposite direction will appear to run away.
Not the intense moment Isolated, with no before and after, But a lifetime burning in every moment.
Home is where one starts from.
We can at least try to understand our own motives, passions, and prejudices, so as to be conscious of what we are doing when we apeal to those of others. This is very difficult, because our own prejudice and emotional bias always seems to us so rational.
O Lord, deliver me from the man of excellent intention and impure heart: for the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.
You can evade life, but you can not evade Death.
Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past Into different lives, or into any future; You are not the same people who left that station Or who will arrive at any terminus, While the narrowing rails slide together behind you.
What is this self-inside us, this silent observer, severe and speechless critic, who can terrorize us, and urge us onto futile activity, and in the end, judge us still more severely for the errors into which his own reproaches drove us?
We must always take risks. That is our destiny.
music heard so deeply That it is not heard at all, but you are the music While the music lasts.
Poetry is not an assertion of truth, but the making of that truth more fully real to us.
Between the desire And the spasm, Between the potency And the existence, Between the essence And the descent, Falls the Shadow.
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