I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.
Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.
Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.