And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end.

The immature poet imitates, the mature poet plagiarizes.

Between the conception and the creation, between the emotion and the response, Falls the shadow.

Think not forever of yourselves, O Chiefs, nor of your own generation. Think of continuing generations of our families, think of our grandchildren and of those yet unborn, whose faces are coming from beneath the ground.

A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.

We had the experience, but we missed the meaning.

We know too much, and are convinced of too little. Our literature is a substitute for religion, and so is our religion.