Gradually We Come To Admit That Shakespeare

Time Present And Time Past Are Both Perhaps Present In Time Future, And Time Future Contained In Time Past. If All Time Is Eternally Present All Time Is Unredeemable.

Stand On The Highest Pavement Of The Stair- Lean On A Garden Urn- Weave, Weave The Sunlight In Your Hair.

We Might Remind Ourselves That Criticism Is As Inevitable As Breathing, And That We Should Be None The Worse For Articulating What Passes In Our Minds When We Read A Book And Feel An Emotion About It, For Criticizing Our Own Minds In Their Work Of Criticism.

In My Beginning Is My End.

At The Still Point Of The Turning World. Neither Flesh Nor Fleshless; Neither From Nor Towards; At The Still Point, There The Dance Is, But Neither Arrest Nor Movement. And Do Not All It Fixity, Where Past And Future Are Gathered. Neither Movement From Nor Towards, Neither Ascent Nor Decline. Except For The Point, The Still Point, There Would Be No Dance, And There Is Only The Dance.