I<\/big>
\nBecause I do not hope to turn again
\nBecause I do not hope
\nBecause I do not hope to turn
\nDesiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
\nI no longer strive to strive towards such things
\n(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
\nWhy should I mourn
\nThe vanished power of the usual reign?<\/p>\n
Because I do not hope to know
\nThe infirm glory of the positive hour
\nBecause I do not think
\nBecause I know I shall not know
\nThe one veritable transitory power
\nBecause I cannot drink
\nThere, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
\nnothing again<\/p>\n
Because I know that time is always time
\nAnd place is always and only place
\nAnd what is actual is actual only for one time
\nAnd only for one place
\nI rejoice that things are as they are and
\nI renounce the blessèd face
\nAnd renounce the voice
\nBecause I cannot hope to turn again
\nConsequently I rejoice, having to construct something
\nUpon which to rejoice<\/p>\n
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
\nAnd pray that I may forget
\nThese matters that with myself I too much discuss
\nToo much explain
\nBecause I do not hope to turn again
\nLet these words answer
\nFor what is done, not to be done again
\nMay the judgement not be too heavy upon us<\/p>\n
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
\nBut merely vans to beat the air
\nThe air which is now thoroughly small and dry
\nSmaller and dryer than the will
\nTeach us to care and not to care
\nTeach us to sit still.<\/p>\n
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
\nPray for us now and at the hour of our death.<\/p>\n
II<\/big>
\nLady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
\nIn the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
\nOn my legs my heart my liver and that which had been
\ncontained
\nIn the hollow round of my skull. And God said
\nShall these bones live? shall these
\nBones live? And that which had been contained
\nIn the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
\nBecause of the goodness of this Lady
\nAnd because of her loveliness, and because
\nShe honours the Virgin in meditation,
\nWe shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
\nProffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
\nTo the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
\nIt is this which recovers
\nMy guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
\nWhich the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
\nIn a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
\nLet the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
\nThere is no life in them. As I am forgotten
\nAnd would be forgotten, so I would forget
\nThus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
\nProphesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
\nThe wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
\nWith the burden of the grasshopper, saying<\/p>\n
Lady of silences
\nCalm and distressed
\nTorn and most whole
\nRose of memory
\nRose of forgetfulness
\nExhausted and life-giving
\nWorried reposeful
\nThe single Rose
\nIs now the Garden
\nWhere all loves end
\nTerminate torment
\nOf love unsatisfied
\nThe greater torment
\nOf love satisfied
\nEnd of the endless
\nJourney to no end
\nConclusion of all that
\nIs inconclusible
\nSpeech without word and
\nWord of no speech
\nGrace to the Mother
\nFor the Garden
\nWhere all love ends.<\/p>\n
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
\nWe are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each
\nother,
\nUnder a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
\nForgetting themselves and each other, united
\nIn the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
\nShall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
\nMatters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.<\/p>\n
III <\/big><\/p>\n
At the first turning of the second stair
\nI turned and saw below
\nThe same shape twisted on the banister
\nUnder the vapour in the fetid air
\nStruggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
\nThe deceitful face of hope and of despair.<\/p>\n
At the second turning of the second stair
\nI left them twisting, turning below;
\nThere were no more faces and the stair was dark,
\nDamp, jagged, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond
\nrepair,
\nOr the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.<\/p>\n
At the first turning of the third stair
\nWas a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit
\nAnd beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
\nThe broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
\nEnchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
\nBlown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
\nLilac and brown hair;
\nDistraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
\nover the third stair,
\nFading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
\nClimbing the third stair.<\/p>\n
Lord, I am not worthy
\nLord, I am not worthy<\/p>\n
but speak the word only.<\/p>\n
IV <\/big>
\nWho walked between the violet and the violet
\nWhe walked between
\nThe various ranks of varied green
\nGoing in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,
\nTalking of trivial things
\nIn ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
\nWho moved among the others as they walked,
\nWho then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs<\/p>\n
Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
\nIn blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,
\nSovegna vos<\/p>\n
Here are the years that walk between, bearing
\nAway the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
\nOne who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing<\/p>\n
White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
\nThe new years walk, restoring
\nThrough a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
\nWith a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
\nThe time. Redeem
\nThe unread vision in the higher dream
\nWhile jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.<\/p>\n
The silent sister veiled in white and blue
\nBetween the yews, behind the garden god,
\nWhose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke
\nno word<\/p>\n
But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
\nRedeem the time, redeem the dream
\nThe token of the word unheard, unspoken<\/p>\n
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew<\/p>\n
And after this our exile<\/p>\n
V <\/big>
\nIf the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
\nIf the unheard, unspoken
\nWord is unspoken, unheard;
\nStill is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
\nThe Word without a word, the Word within
\nThe world and for the world;
\nAnd the light shone in darkness and
\nAgainst the Word the unstilled world still whirled
\nAbout the centre of the silent Word.<\/p>\n
O my people, what have I done unto thee.<\/p>\n
Where shall the word be found, where will the word
\nResound? Not here, there is not enough silence
\nNot on the sea or on the islands, not
\nOn the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
\nFor those who walk in darkness
\nBoth in the day time and in the night time
\nThe right time and the right place are not here
\nNo place of grace for those who avoid the face
\nNo time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny
\nthe voice<\/p>\n
Will the veiled sister pray for
\nThose who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
\nThose who are torn on the horn between season and season,
\ntime and time, between
\nHour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
\nIn darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
\nFor children at the gate
\nWho will not go away and cannot pray:
\nPray for those who chose and oppose<\/p>\n
O my people, what have I done unto thee.<\/p>\n
Will the veiled sister between the slender
\nYew trees pray for those who offend her
\nAnd are terrified and cannot surrender
\nAnd affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
\nIn the last desert before the last blue rocks
\nThe desert in the garden the garden in the desert
\nOf drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.<\/p>\n
O my people.<\/p>\n
VI <\/big>
\nAlthough I do not hope to turn again
\nAlthough I do not hope
\nAlthough I do not hope to turn<\/p>\n
Wavering between the profit and the loss
\nIn this brief transit where the dreams cross
\nThe dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
\n(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
\nFrom the wide window towards the granite shore
\nThe white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
\nUnbroken wings<\/p>\n
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
\nIn the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
\nAnd the weak spirit quickens to rebel
\nFor the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
\nQuickens to recover
\nThe cry of quail and the whirling plover
\nAnd the blind eye creates
\nThe empty forms between the ivory gates
\nAnd smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth<\/p>\n
This is the time of tension between dying and birth
\nThe place of solitude where three dreams cross
\nBetween blue rocks
\nBut when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
\nLet the other yew be shaken and reply.<\/p>\n
Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
\nof the garden,
\nSuffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
\nTeach us to care and not to care
\nTeach us to sit still
\nEven among these rocks,
\nOur peace in His will
\nAnd even among these rocks
\nSister, mother
\nAnd spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
\nSuffer me not to be separated<\/p>\n
And let my cry come unto Thee.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should … Continue reading