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