Teach us to care and not to care

Mediocre writers borrow; great writers steal.

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.

In a mind charged with an eager purpose and an unfinished vindictiveness, there is no room for new feelings.

Where is all the knowledge we lost with information?

History may be servitude. History may be freedom. See, now they vanish. The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them, to become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.

We ask only to be reassured About the noises in the cellar And the window that should not have been open