Words Strain, Crack, And Sometime Break, Under

At The Still Point, There The Dance Is.

In Order To Arrive At What You Are Not, You Must Go Through The Way In Which You Are Not.

Our Emotions Are Only “incidents” In The Effort To Keep Day And Night Together.

What Have We Given? My Friend, Blood Shaking My Heart The Awful Daring Of A Moment's Surrender Which An Age Of Prudence Can Never Retract By This, And This Only, We Have Existed.

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.