Imge’s Reviews > Collected Poems, 1909-1962 > Status Update
Imge
is on page 183 of 221
Four Quartets/Burnt Norton
"...What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
...
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden."
It's such a brilliant and romantic way to evoke a sense of nostalgia, longing, and possibilities.
— Sep 05, 2025 03:33PM
"...What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
...
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden."
It's such a brilliant and romantic way to evoke a sense of nostalgia, longing, and possibilities.
1 like · Like flag
Imge’s Previous Updates
Imge
is on page 95 of 221
Ash Wednesday
"Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden"
— Sep 02, 2025 07:34AM
"Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden"
Imge
is on page 85 of 221
The Hollow Men
“Shape without form, shade without color,
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion.”
The way he captures humanity in just a single line always blows my mind. So much of what we do becomes mechanical; empty of meaning, emotion, or impact. We’re stuck in a society that paralyzes us. We want to act, but because we’re only going through the motions, it all ends up feeling meaningless.
— Sep 01, 2025 04:26AM
“Shape without form, shade without color,
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion.”
The way he captures humanity in just a single line always blows my mind. So much of what we do becomes mechanical; empty of meaning, emotion, or impact. We’re stuck in a society that paralyzes us. We want to act, but because we’re only going through the motions, it all ends up feeling meaningless.
Imge
is on page 29 of 221
Rhapsody on a Windy Night
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
— Mar 13, 2025 02:32PM
Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
