I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow
What have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed.
I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience.
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.
For you know only a heap of broken images
The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started.
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.
Dayodhuam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison.
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
I can connect Nothing with nothing
Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman -But who is that on the other side of you?
You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; They called me the hyacinth girl.' —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Od' und leer das Meer.
And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you I will show you fear in a handful of dust
or simply:
