Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into 
something better, or at least something different.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities...
Humankind cannot bear very much reality.
It is only in the world of objects that we have time and space and selves.