April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
T. S. ELIOTWhere is the Life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
More T. S. Eliot Quotes
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For I have known them all already, known them all—Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
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Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
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What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
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Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
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There’s no vocabulary For love within a family, love that’s lived in But not looked at, love within the light of which All else is seen, the love within which All other love finds speech. This love is silent.
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You are the music while the music lasts.
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I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.
T. S. ELIOT -
Distracted from distraction by distraction
T. S. ELIOT -
Where is the Life we have lost in living? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
T. S. ELIOT -
The very existence of libraries affords the best evidence that we may yet have hope for the future of man
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I can connect Nothing with nothing
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I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
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We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us and we drown.
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This love is silent.
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Do I dare Disturb the universe?
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For last year’s words belong to last year’s language and next year’s words await another voice.
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Whatever you think, be sure it is what you think; whatever you want, be sure that is what you want; whatever you feel, be sure that is what you feel.
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So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore.
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To do the useful thing, to say the courageous thing, to contemplate the beautiful thing: that is enough for one man’s life.
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The visible reminder of Invisible Light.
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There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet
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For you know only a heap of broken images
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Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.
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I am moved by fancies that are curled, around these images and cling, the notion of some infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing.
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There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not.
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We do not pass through the same door twice Or return to the door through which we did not pass.
T. S. ELIOT