I was never able to write seriously about heroes because I was very aware that I was not one and that in my background there was not this heroic thing.
Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
Silence is the best response to a fool.
Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.
I love you for the part of me that you bring out.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Pound was silly, bumptious, extravagantly generous, annoying, exhibitionistic; Eliot was sensible, cautious, retiring, soothing, shy. Though Pound wrote some brilliant passages, on the whole he was a failure as a poet (sometimes even in his own estimation); Eliot went from success to success and is still quoted--and misquoted--by thousands of people who have never read him. Both men were expatriates by choice, but Eliot renounced his American citizenship and did his best to become assimilated with his fellow British subjects, while Pound always remained an American in exile.
. . . In the history of medicine and science, no chronic or metabolic disease has been cured by factors foreign to the diet, (or) to biological experience.
Do not worry over the charge of treason to your masters, but be concerned about the treason that involves yourselves. Be true to yourself and you cannot be a traitor to any good cause on Earth.
All the damnable degrees Of drinking have you staggered through.