Immature Poets Imitate; Mature Poets Steal.

I Don't Believe One Grows Older. I Think That What Happens Early On In Life Is That At A Certain Age One Stands Still And Stagnates.

The Past And Future / Are Conquered, And Reconciled.

We Shall Not Cease From Exploring, And The End Of Our Exploring Will Be To Arrive Where We Started And Know The Place For The First Time.

I Should Have Been A Pair Of Ragged Claws/ Scuttling Across The Floors Of Silent Seas.

For Last Year's Words Belong To Last Year's Language And Next Year's Words Await Another Voice.