Flash Hercules

Ash Wednesday (9/26/07)VI Although I do not hope to turn again/ Although I do not hope/ Although I do not hope to turn//Wavering between the profit and the loss/ In this brief transit where the dreams cross/ The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying/ (Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things/ From the wide window towards the granite shore/ The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying/ Unbroken wings//And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices/ In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices/ And the weak spirit quickens to rebel/ For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell/ Quickens to recover/ The cry of quail and the whirling plover/ And the blind eye creates/ The empty forms between the ivory gates/ And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth//This is the time of tension between dying and birth/ The place of solitude where three dreams cross/ Between blue rocks/ But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away/ Let the other yew be shaken and reply.//Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain,/ spirit of the garden,/ Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood/ Teach us to care and not to care/ Teach us to sit still/ Even among these rocks,/ Our peace in His will/ And even among these rocks/ Sister, mother/ And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,/ Suffer me not to be separated//And let my cry come unto Thee. /- T.S. Eliot