T.S. Eliot

Shape without form, shade without color, Paralyzed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us-if at all-not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men.

I shall not want Honor in Heaven For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney And have talk with Coriolanus And other heroes of that kidney.

Hurry up, please, its time.

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

Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow.

And I must borrow every changing shape To find expression.

And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you, Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand.

Webster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin.

In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.