Now that the lilacs are in bloom She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
A thousand policemen directing traffic cannot tell you why you come or where you go.
I've been born, and once is enough.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
I take as metaphysical poetry that in which what is ordinarily apprehensible only by thought is brought within the grasp of feeling, or that in which what is ordinarily only felt is transformed into thought without ceasing to be feeling.
In spite of all the dishonour, the broken standards, the broken lives, The broken faith in one place or another, There was something left that was more than the tales Of old men on winter evenings.