All Art Emulates The Condition Of Ritual.

There Will Be Time, There Will Be Time To Prepare A Face To Meet The Faces That You Meet.

Ash On An Old Man's Sleeve / Is All The Ash The Burnt Roses Leave, / Dust In The Air Suspended / Marks The Place Where A Story Ended.

He Who Was Living Is Now Dead We Who Were Living Are Now Dying With A Little Patience.

Hell Is Oneself, Hell Is Alone, The Other Figures In It Merely Projections. There Is Nothing To Escape From And Nothing To Escape To. One Is Always Alone.

If We Are Moved By A Poem, It Has Meant Something, Perhaps Something Important, To Us; If We Are Not Moved, Then It Is, As Poetry, Meaningless.