There Will Be Time To Murder And

What Is This Self-inside Us, This Silent Observer, Severe And Speechless Critic, Who Can Terrorize Us, And Urge Us Onto Futile Activity, And In The End, Judge Us Still More Severely For The Errors Into Which His Own Reproaches Drove Us?

Although I Do Not Hope To Turn Again Although I Do Not Hope Although I Do Not Hope To Turn

To Believe In The Supernatural Is Not Simply To Believe That After Living A Successful, Material, And Fairly Virtuous Life Here One Will Continue To Exist In The Best-possible Substitute For This World, Or That After Living A Starved And Stunted Life Here One Will Be Compensated With All The Good Things One Has Gone Without: It Is To Believe That The Supernatural Is The Greatest Reality Here And Now.

It Seems Just Possible That A Poem Might Happen To A Very Young Man: But A Poem Is Not Poetry -that Is A Life.

April Is The Cruelest Month, Breeding Lilacs Out Of The Dead Land, Mixing Memory And Desire, Stirring Dull Roots With Spring Rain.