Yeats was the greatest poet of our times . . . certainly the greatest in this language, and so far as I am able to judge, in any language.
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
Contributed by: Zaady
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes.
Source: Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Stand on the highest pavement of the stair- Lean on a garden urn- Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
Source: La Figlia Che Piange, 1917
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper tree.
Source: Ash-Wednesday, 1930
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.
Source: Journey of the Magi
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
Source: The Rock
Each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.
Source: East Coker
That was my way of putting it-not very satisfactory: A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings.
Last season's fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice.
Source: Little Gidding
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