In The Faint Moonlight, The Grass Is

Immature Poets Imitate; Mature Poets Steal.

I Will Show You Fear In A Handful Of Dust.

There Is, It Seems To Us, At Best, Only A Limited Value In The Knowledge Derived From Experience.

At The Still Point Of The Turning World. Neither Flesh Nor Fleshless; Neither From Nor Towards; At The Still Point, There The Dance Is.

If You Do Not Push The Boundaries, You Will Never Know Where They Are.