We can say of Shakespeare, that never has a man turned so little knowledge to such great account.
T. S. EliotTurning Wearily, as one would turn to nod goodbye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he as the end of the street.
T. S. EliotThe yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep
T. S. Eliot