The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started.

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky

What a poem means is as much what it means to others as what it means to the author; and indeed, in the course of time a poet may become merely reader in respect to his own works, forgetting his original meaning.

So the lover must struggle for words.

All time is eternal, moving inexorably toward an end which we believe is a result of our actions, but over which our control is mere illusion.

For you know only a heap of broken images

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 are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.