The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours.

Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.

A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time, or alien in language, or diverse in interest.

Every experience is a paradox in that it means to be absolute, and yet is relative; in that it somehow always goes beyond itself and yet never escapes itself.

He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience.

Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

The great ages did not contain the best talent, they wasted less.