For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice.
We must learn to suffer more.
A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.
A thousand policemen directing traffic cannot tell you why you come or where you go.
life is long between the desire and the spasm.
I am moved by fancies that are curled, around these images and cling, the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing.