The immature poet imitates, the mature poet plagiarizes.

The very existence of libraries affords the best evidence that we may yet have hope for the future of man

Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance

Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.

I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.

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.

Distracted from distraction by distraction