Footfalls echo in the memory, Down the passage which we did not take, Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden.

That corpse you planted last year in your garden, / Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

What we know of other people's only our memory of the moments during which we knew them.

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

There is not a more repulsive spectacle than on old man who will not forsake the world, which has already forsaken him.

I had seen birth and death but had thought they were different.