Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other Who think the same thoughts without need of speech

With a poem you can say 'I got my feeling into words for myself. I now have the equivalent in words for that much of what I have felt.'

You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, And how, how rare and strange it is, to find In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends, (For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind! How keen you are!) To find a friend who has these qualities, Who has, and gives Those qualities upon which friendship lives. How much it means that I say this to you- Without these friendships-life, what cauchemar!

A wrong attitude toward nature implies, somewhere, a wrong attitude toward God.

[On The Waste Land:] Various critics have done me the honor to interpret the poem in terms of criticism of the contemporary world, have considered it, indeed, as an important bit of social criticism. To me it was only the relief of a personal and wholly insignificant grouse against life; it is just a piece of rhythmical grumbling.

There is not a more repulsive spectacle than on old man who will not forsake the world, which has already forsaken him.

It is obvious that we can no more explain a passion to a person who has never experienced it than we can explain light to the blind.