A thousand policemen directing traffic cannot tell you why you come or where you go.
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.
Human kind cannot bear much reality.
At the still point, there the dance is.
The rats are underneath the piles/ The Jew is underneath the lot.
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think