When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smooths her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice.

At the beach - time you enjoyed wasting, is not wasted.

I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.

And indeed there will be time to wonder, 'Do I dare?', and 'Do I dare?

In order to possess what you do not possess, you must go by the way of dispossession.

Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance