We shall not cease from explorationAnd the end of all our exploringWill be to arrive where we startedAnd know the place for the first time.

You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; They called me the hyacinth girl.' —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Od' und leer das Meer.

ঐ নিয়ন্তা হাতটির ইশারায় বসেছি তখন সে-তটেমৎস্য-শিকারে রত, পশ্চাতে বিরান তেপান্তরআমার জমি কি নেব না গুছিয়ে আমি অন্ততঃ?লন্ডন ব্রিজ ভেঙে প’ড়ে যায় ভেঙে প’ড়ে যায় ভেঙে প’ড়ে যায়সে সেই অনলে লুকাল তাদের পুড়ে যা করবে শুদ্ধ অতঃপরকবহুঁ ভইব দোয়েল-সমান—দোয়েল দোয়েল বোনটিভাঙা কেল­ায় আকিতেইনের রাজার কুমার কাঁদেপ্রলয় আমার ঠেকিয়েছি এই খোলামকুচির বাঁধেতথাস্তু, হবে ব্যবস্থা তব। খেপেছে হিয়েরোনিমো পুনরায়।দত্ত। দয়ধ্বম্। দাম্যত। শান্তিঃ শান্তিঃ শান্তিঃ

Quick now, here, now, always-- A condition of complete simplicity(Costing not less than everything)

When we talk about Poetry, with a capital P, we are apt to think only of the more intense emotions or the more magical phrase: nevertheless there are a great many casements in poetry which are not magic, and which do not open on the foam of perilous seas, but are perfectly good windows for all that.

Till Human voices wake us, and we drown.

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.

What a poem means is as much what it means to others as what it means to the author; and indeed, in the course of time a poet may become merely reader in respect to his own works, forgetting his original meaning.

The bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious.