Quotes to inspire and reflect

I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.

O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent.

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

I had not thought death had undone so many. 1 Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled. 2

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.

The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.

Uncorseted, her friendly bust Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

He knew the anguish of the marrow The ague of the skeleton; No contact possible to flesh Allayed the fever of the bone.

The hippopotamus’s day Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious way— The Church can sleep and feed at once.

Webster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin.

Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes. These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions, Guides us by vanities.

He had a mind so fine that no idea could violate it.

Here I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.

Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair— Lean on a garden urn— Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

His laughter tinkled among the teacups.

Upon the glazen shelves kept watch Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith, The army of unalterable law.

The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.

And I must borrow every changing shape To find expression.

I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids Sprouting despondently at area gates.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

There will be time to murder and create.

And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

Still falls the Rain— Dark as the world of man, black as our loss— Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails Upon the Cross.

Lily O’Grady, Silly and shady, Longing to be A lazy lady.

“Keep clear of the dupes that talk democracy And the dogs that talk revolution, Drunk with talk, liars and believers. I believe in my tusks. Long live freedom and damn the ideologies,” Said the gamey black-maned wild boar Tusking the turf on Mal Paso Mountain.

Be a worm in a wild apple than a son of man.

A stone is a better pillow than many visions.

The strong lean upon death as on a rock.

I’d sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk.

Pacific leans on the land, Feeling his cold strength To the outmost margins.

Lend me the stone strength of the past and I will lend you The wings of the future, for I have them.

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich dead! There’s none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

Now, God be thanked, Who has matched us with His hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping.

If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is forever England.

Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; The benison of hot water; furs to touch; The good smell of old clothes.

Fish say, they have their stream and pond; But is there anything beyond?