There is no absolute point of view from which real and ideal can be finally separated and labelled.

There is no absolute point of view from which real and ideal can be finally separated and labelled.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives.

Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign?

No artist produces great art by a deliberate attempt to express his own personality.

The dream crossed twilight between birth and dying.

To country people Cows are mild, And flee from any stick they throw; But I’m a timid town bred child, And all the cattle seem to know.