We do not pass twice through the same door Or return to the door through which we did not pass.

Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still.

Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness.

And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

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.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.