At the still point, there the dance is.
Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo.
Art never improves, but... the material of art is never quite the same.
You can evade life, but you can not evade Death.
That was my way of putting it-not very satisfactory: A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings.