Thomas Stearns Eliot OM, usually known as T. S. Eliot, was an essayist, publisher, playwright, literary and social critic, and "one of the twentieth century's major poets". He was born in St. Louis, Missouri, to the old Yankee Eliot family descended from Andrew Eliot, who migrated to Boston, Massachusetts from East Coker, England in the 1660s. He emigrated to England in 1914, settling, working and marrying there. He was eventually naturalised as a British subject in 1927 at age 39, renouncing his American citizenship... (wikipedia)
We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.
April is the cruellest month.
Moving between the legs of tables and of chairs, rising or falling, grasping at kisses and toys, advancing boldly, sudden to take alarm, retreating to the corner of arm and knee, eager to be reassured, taking pleasure in the fragrant brilliance of the Christmas tree.
It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words.
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
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, not with a bang, but a whimper.
If you desire to drain to the dregs the fullest cup of scorn and hatred that a fellow human being can pour out for you, let a young mother hear you call dear baby 'it.'
You are the music while the music lasts.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope, For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.