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. — T. S. Eliot, from “The Waste Land,” The Waste Land and… Continue reading T. S. Eliot
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the… Continue reading T. S. Eliot
Because I know that time is always time and place is always and only place and what is actual is actual only for one time and only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are. — T. S. Eliot, from “Ash Wednesday,” Collected Poems 1909-1962. (Faber & Faber Limited 1963)
I am weary with longing. I am faint with love; for upon my head the moonlight has fallen as a sword. — Skipwith Cannéll, from “Nocturnes,” Poetry (August 1913).
All the while they were talking the new morality Her eyes explored me. And when I rose to go Her fingers were like the tissue Of a Japanese paper napkin. — Ezra Pound, “The Encounter,” Selected Poems. (New Directions January 17, 1957) Originally published 1928.
A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. — T. S. Eliot, from “The Waste Land,” The Waste Land and Other Poems. (Harcourt, Brace and Co.; 1 edition August 4, 1955) Originally published 1922.
We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. — T. S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding,” The Four Quartets. (Faber & Faber 1959) Originally published 1943.