April is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory out of desire, stirringDull roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in a forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers.
Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind.
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.
Most of the trouble in the world is caused by people wanting to be important.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
So far as we are human, what we do must be either evil or good so far as we do evil or good, we are human and it is better, in a paradoxical way, to do evil than to do nothing at least we exist.
We know too much, and are convinced of too little. Our literature is a substitute for religion, and so is our religion.
Only those who will risk going too far Can possibly find out how far one can go.
Immature poets imitate mature poets steal.
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