And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smooths her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.
For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice.
War is not a life: it is a situation, one which may neither be ignored nor accepted.
Talent imitates, genius steals.
We read many books, because we cannot know enough people.