Thomas Stearns

"There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present."

Commenting on T.S. Eliot--especially the Four Quartets, is almost as foolhardy as commenting upon the Bible (at least in my estimation). But, as I said in the previous posting, I'm exhausted enough to prove myself a fool.

I went to Eliot because I've been messing with the formatting of this site (see added "From my Beside Table" at right), and there is a way to add a footer-quote. I thought one of Eliot's quotes about time would be appropriate. Something like: "We shall not cease from exploration/And the end of all our exploring/Will be to arrive where we started/And know the place for the first time"--which is from Little Gidding: the fourth of the Quartets.

As a good little English major, I began reading the poem at the beginning and couldn't get past the first stanza (?) of Burnt Norton, part of which I quoted above.

And, for those of you who care what I have to say about High Modern poetry, here goes:

Eliot's spiritual journey has always haunted/inspired me. We see him in despair in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and then watch him move into an agnostic desert in "The Wasteland." But, when the Four Quartets open up, he is a passionate believer. While I don't think American Evangelicals are ready for him (their fault, not his), Truth and Beauty rise from his work like incense.

One of my college professors wrote a poem of questions inspired by the Quartets. These are my questions, not nearly so artfully written.

What better image do we have of angels?
How tragic that a flower might not have the look of being looked at.
Why are invisible and unheard forces often the ones that change our lives?
Why can animals and children live in "reality," while we adults are too busy studying and dissecting it to know it as they do? Where does that childish wisdom go? Why do we let such innocent wisdom dissipate?

Eliot's thoughts are far beyond mine, but through his words I am once again reminded that we must come to the Lord as little children, or, if the metaphor fits better for you, as animals. As those who find joy in humbling themselves and laying their own power down before one they know will care for them.

I have ranted about Jake and George, but truly I love them, and will miss them greatly when I move. George drives me crazy sometimes because he is so timid and scared of EVERYTHING, but all he wants is to be loved and cuddled and petted, and he is willing to do anything to be loved. So many of us, myself included, are too busy hoisting aloft our pride and self-suffiency to accept love, let alone ask for it. We must come before God and before each other as George comes before me: humbly begging for undeserved compassion.

For without love, there is no life. And he who does not love, does not know God, for God is love.