That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees, —Those dying generations—at their song . . .

O chestnut tree, great rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance?

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.Unreal CityUnder the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.

€�Come buy our orchard fruits, Come buy, come buy”

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.

€�Criticism is . . . A disinterested endeavor to learn and propagate the best that is known and thought in the world.” “Criticism is . . . The endeavor, in all branches of knowledge, theology, philosophy, history, art, science, to see the object as in itself it really is.”

The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife--- Fly hence, our contact fear!