"In a Station of the Metro"

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

"Gentildonna"

She passed and left no quiver in the veins, who
                   now
Moving among the trees, and clinging
                                         in the air she severed,
Fanning the grass she walked on then, endures:
Grey olive leaves beneath a rain-cold sky.

T. S. Eliot, from The Waste Land

                                              I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon —O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

                        Shantih       shantih      shantih