Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair-
If all time is eternally present, all time is unredeemable
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, every poem an epitaph.
In my beginning is my end.
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats 5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10 Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
The soul of Man must quicken to creation.
For you know only a heap of broken images
My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. 'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. 'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? 'I never know what you are thinking. Think.
Neither way is better. / Both ways are necessary. / It is also necessary / To make a choice between them.
So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore.
Men have left GOD not for other gods, they say, but for no God; and this has never happened before.
Envy is everywhere. Who is without envy? And most people Are unaware or unashamed of being envious.
After such knowledge, what forgiveness?
Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow
No artist produces great art by a deliberate attempt to express his own personality.
A play should give you something to think about. When I see a play and understand it the first time, then I know it can't be much good.
time past and time future what might have been and what has been point to one end, which is always present.
Past art is subject to change.
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky
Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove.
If time and space, as sages say, Are things which cannot be, The sun which does not feel decay No greater is than we. So why, Love, should we ever pray To live a century? The butterfly that lives a day Has lived eternity.
The sense of wellbeing! Its often with us When we are young, but then it's not noticed; And by the time one has grown to consciousness It comes less often.
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. Through the unknown, remembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea.
Our emotions Are only “incidents” In the effort to keep day and night together.
A tradition without intelligence is not worth having.
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