We are the hollow menWe are the stuffed menLeaning togetherHeadpiece filled with straw. Alas!Our dried voices, whenWe whisper togetherAre quiet and meaninglessAs wind in dry grassOr rats' feet over broken glassIn our dry cellarShape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; -
T.S. Eliot
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.
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Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.
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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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Poetry should help, not only to refine the language of the time, but to prevent it from changing too rapidly.
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It seems just possible that a poem might happen to a very young man: but a poem is not poetry -- that is a life.
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Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
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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.
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This is the way the world endsNot with a bang but a whimper.
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No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must set him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead.
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The emotion of art is impersonal. And the poet cannot reach this impersonality without surrendering himself wholly to the work to be done. And he is not likely to know what is to be done unless he lives in what is not merely the present, but the present moment of the past, unless he is conscious, not of what is dead, but of what is already living.
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Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
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So I find words I never thought to speakIn streets I never thought I should revisitWhen I left my body on a distant shore.
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Between the desireAnd the spasm, Between the potencyAnd the existence, Between the essenceAnd the descent, Falls the Shadow.
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Who is the third who walks always beside you?When I count, there are only you and I togetherBut when I look ahead up the white roadThere is always another one walking beside youGliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hoodedI do not know whether a man or a woman-But who is that on the other side of you?
poetry
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