Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being to which we rarely penetrate for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves. ― T.S. Eliot
I am moved by fancies that are curledAround these images, and cling:The notion of some infinitely gentleInfinitely suffering thing. — T.S. Eliot, from “Preludes,” Prufrock and Other Observations. (Forgotten Books September 27, 2015) Originally published 1917.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you… Continue reading T.S. Eliot
Rhapsody on a Windy Night Twelve o’clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes… Continue reading T.S. Eliot
And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— ― T.S. Eliot, from “The Love Song of J. Alfred… Continue reading T.S. Eliot
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,… Continue reading T.S. Eliot
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality. — T. S. Eliot, from “Tradition and Individual Talent,” The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism (Routledge, 1989)
The river is within us, the sea is all about us — T. S. Eliot, from “The Dry Salvages,” The Four Quartets. (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971) Originally published 1943.
Desire itself is movement Not in itself desireable; Love is itself unmoving, Only the cause and end of movement, Timeless, and undesiring Except in the aspect of time Caught in the form of limitation Between un-being and being. Sudden in a shaft of sunlight Even while the dust moves There rises the hidden laughter Of… Continue reading T.S. Eliot
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go. ― T.S. Eliot