Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration. - Carl Sandburg
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Kim & Deb
2 comments:
S
said...
Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter. Old men ought to be explorers Here or there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For a further union, a deeper communion Through the dark cold and the empty desolation, The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters Of the petrel and porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
2 comments:
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty
desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and porpoise.
In my end is my beginning.
T S Eliot
Thank you S. That means a lot.
Post a Comment