The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes.
Yeats was the greatest poet of our times ... certainly the greatest in this language, and so far as I am able to judge, in any language.
This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.
Last seasons fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. For last years words belong to last years language And next years words await another voice.
That was my way of putting itnot very satisfactory A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings.
Each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge Where is the knowledge we have lost in information
A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper tree.
Stand on the highest pavement of the stair Lean on a garden urn Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water.
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives.
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes. These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.
Twelve o'clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis.
Half of the harm that is done in this world is due to people who want to feel important. They don't mean to do harm but the harm does not interest them.
It is impossible to design a system so perfect that no one needs to be good.
There will be time to murder and create.
Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past.
One thinks of all the hands That are raising dingy shades In a thousand furnished rooms.
This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.
Who is the third who walks always beside you
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.