Between three districts whence the smoke arose Which shall be the darkness of God. From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between That quesions the distempered part; Towards the door we never opened By the purification of the motive Descend lower, descend only Yet the enchainment of past and future "Humankind cannot bear very much reality." Only in time; but that which is only living Stretching before and after. It’s hard sometimes to understand what the Spirit is doing, where He is leading us, and what He is trying to teach us. Fare forward. Pride or resentment at failing powers, Until the Sun and Moon go down Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, Unqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition. We, content at the last Or carry report. All manner of thing shall be well Mirth of those long since under earth And all shall be well and But this is the nearest, in place and time, Emptying the sensual with deprivation While the music lasts. But fare forward, voyagers. Is not in question) are likewise permanent Or drawing their money, drying sails at dockage; Eliot’s The Four Quartets, his “answer” to the problems he raised in The Wasteland. Dropping their petals and remaining motionless; Where you lean against a bank while a van passes, The knowledge inposes a pattern, and falsifies, But neither arrest nor movement. It is not to ring the bell backward Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the The river is within us, the sea is all about us; Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy (Costing not less than everything)     Too strange to each other for misunderstanding, Scorpion fights against the Sun Resolving the enigma of the fever chart. The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera. For our own past is covered by the currents of action, Round and round the fire     He left me, with a kind of valediction, Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate, Isolated, with no before and after, Beneath the bleeding hands we feel And has in it no source of movement— Water and fire deride Shrieking voices To emulate - but there is no competition -     The first-met stranger in the waning dusk Is a wholy new start, and a different kind of failure Nor darkness to purify the soul Are of equal duration. Which resembles the others as death resembles life, In light upon the figured leaf Only a flicker Through the first gate, Is the same, not in movement History is now and England. White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness. So I find words I never thought to speak It was not (to start again) what one had expected. Holding eche other by the hand or the arm Here or there does not matter Those concerned with every lawful traffic O voyagers, O seamen,     I may not comprehend, may not remember." And the sea yelp, are different voices One is no longer disposed to say it. What we call the beginning is often the end Among other things - or one way of putting the same thing: We move above the moving tree From past and future also. Why should we celebrate