Mediocre Writers Borrow; Great Writers Steal.

Time For You And Time For Me, And Time Yet For A Hundred Indecisions, And For A Hundred Visions And Revisions, Before The Taking Of A Toast And Tea.

In The Last Few Years Everything I'd Done Up To Sixty Or So Has Seemed Very Childish.

And Went On In Sunlight, Into The Hofgarten, And Drank Coffee, And Talked For An Hour.

At The Still Point Of The Turning World. Neither Flesh Nor Fleshless; Neither From Nor Towards; At The Still Point, There The Dance Is, But Neither Arrest Nor Movement. And Do Not All It Fixity, Where Past And Future Are Gathered. Neither Movement From Nor Towards, Neither Ascent Nor Decline. Except For The Point, The Still Point, There Would Be No Dance, And There Is Only The Dance.

Time Present And Time Past / Are Both Perhaps Present In Time Future.