In the end is my beginning.

...the still point in a turning world.

Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.

It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words.

Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'/Let us go and make our visit.

The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o'clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps.

I was too slow a mover to be a boxer. It was much easier to be a poet.