Friendship should be more than biting time can sever.
Hell is oneself, hell is alone, the other figures in it merely projections. There is nothing to escape from and nothing to escape to. One is always alone.
Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance
Poetry is a mug's game.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.