The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.
T. S. EliotThis is the feeling for syllable and rhythm, penetrating far below the conscious levels of thought and feeling, invigorating every word.
T. S. EliotThere is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not.
T. S. Eliot