All shall be well...

[Peter Connelly]

This, from the end of Little Gidding, by T.S. Eliot. Wonderful ….


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.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

[shygirl78]

What a beautiful poem... Just came on the forum as have recently been visiting on the Island, can't wait to go back!

M

[Peter Connelly]

Ta for the comment. Haste ye back...

[longshanks]

I agree with the shy girl, great poem by a truely great poet. Could have been even better with a mention of a mouse or a pudding maybe, just a suggestion.

Rabbi Shanks (iambic by choice)

[shygirl78]

I hope quicker than the last time anyway, although don't think trying to enjoy a G&T outside the T&T in the snow would be quite the same...

The first part of 'The Word' by Pablo Neruda

The word
was born in the blood,
grew in the dark body, beating
and flew through the lips and the mouth,

Farther away and nearer
still, still it came
from dead fathers and from wandering races,
from lands that had returned to stone,
weary of their poor tribes,
because when pain took to the roads,
the settlements set out and arrived
and new lands and water reunited
to sow their word anew,
And so, this is the inheritance-
this is the wavelength which connects us
with the dead man and the dawn
and new beings not yet come to light.

And Longshanks... one for you (though no mention of a mouse, sorry!)
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.