History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors and issues.
Bad poets imitate, good poets steal.
Birth, and copulation, and death; that's all the facts when you come to brass tacks.
Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices in the lost lilac and the lost sea voices and the weak spirit quickens to rebel for the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell quickens to recover.
That is the worst moment, when you feel you have lost / The desires for all that was most desirable, / Before you are contented with what you can desire; / Before you know what is left to be desired; / And you go on wishing that you could desire / What desire has left behind.