T. S. Eliot

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope.

There will be time to murder and create.

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

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

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

A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey.

The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated.

Old men ought to be explorers Here and there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity.

Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter.

The houses are all gone under the sea. The dancers are all gone under the hill.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe.

Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.

HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME

Shantih shantih shantih

The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract.

These fragments I have shored against my ruins.

What the dead had no speech for, when living, They can tell you, being dead: the communication Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.