Destiny Waits In The Hand

It Is Impossible To Say Just What I Mean!

Our Lives Are Mostly A Constant Evasion Of Ourselves, And Of Our Visible, Sensible World.

The Bad Poet Is Usually Unconscious Where He Ought To Be Conscious, And Conscious Where He Ought To Be Unconscious.

Those Who Say They Give The Public What It Wants Begin By Underestimating Public Taste And End By Debauching It.

A Heap Of Broken Images, Where The Sun Beats, And The Dead Tree Gives No Shelter, The Cricket No Relief, And The Dry Stone No Sound Of Water. Only There Is Shadow Under This Red Rock, (come In Under The Shadow Of This Red Rock), And I Will Show You Something Different From Either Your Shadow At Morning Striding Behind You Or Your Shadow At Evening Rising To Meet You; I Will Show You Fear In A Handful Of Dust.