At The Still Point Of The Turning

What We Know Of Other People's Only Our Memory Of The Moments During Which We Knew Them.

Everyone's Alone - Or So It Seems To Me. They Make Noises, And Think They Are Talking To Each Other; They Make Faces, And Think They Understand Each Other. And I'm Sure They Don't. Is That A Delusion?

The Yellow Fog That Rubs Its Back Upon The Window-panes The Yellow Smoke That Rubs Its Muzzle On The Window-panes Licked Its Tongue Into The Corners Of The Evening Lingered Upon The Pools That Stand In Drains Let Fall Upon Its Back The Soot That Falls From Chimneys Slipped By The Terrace, Made A Sudden Leap And Seeing That It Was A Soft October Night Curled Once About The House, And Fell Asleep

People To Whom Nothing Has Ever Happened Cannot Understand The Unimportance Of Events.

Here I Am, An Old Man In A Dry Month, Being Read To By A Boy, Waiting For Rain.