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    east coker poem wait without hope

    Wait for the early owl. The whole earth is our hospital Where you lean against a bank while a van passes, And the wisdom of age?

    To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness, Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm. Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars. Of death and birth.

    Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: Do not let me hearOf the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.The only wisdom we can hope to acquireIs the wisdom of humility: humility is endless. In the middle, not only in the middle of the way The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy

    And what there is to conquerBy strength and submission, has already been discoveredOnce or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hopeTo emulate—but there is no competition—There is only the fight to recover what has been lostAnd found and lost again and again: and now, under conditionsThat seem unpropitious. Home is where one starts from.

    There is only the fight to recover what has been lost Beneath the bleeding hands we feel Because one has only learnt to get the better of words Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

    In my beginning is my end. Round and round the fire Not the intense moment

    Not the intense momentIsolated, with no before and after,But a lifetime burning in every momentAnd not the lifetime of one man onlyBut of old stones that cannot be deciphered.There is a time for the evening under starlight,A time for the evening under lamplight(The evening with the photograph album).Love is most nearly itselfWhen here and now cease to matter.Old men ought to be explorersHere or there does not matterWe must be still and still movingInto another intensityFor a further union, a deeper communionThrough the dark cold and the empty desolation,The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast watersOf the petrel and the porpoise. And every moment is a new and shocking The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,

    With the disturbance of the spring So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. Scorpion fights against the Sun Die of the absolute paternal care Thunder rolled by the rolling stars

    Risking enchantment. Keeping time,Keeping the rhythm in their dancingAs in their living in the living seasonsThe time of the seasons and the constellationsThe time of milking and the time of harvestThe time of the coupling of man and womanAnd that of beasts. Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony Of death and birth. Keeping the rhythm in their dancing Dawn points, and another dayPrepares for heat and silence. For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession, O dark dark dark.

    That questions the distempered part; The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy

    That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory: And what you own is what you do not own Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: Wrinkles and slides.

    The only wisdom we can hope to acquire from “East Coker” I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.

    And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha

    The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters Trying to use words, and every attempt Isolated, with no before and after, The wounded surgeon plies the steelThat questions the distempered part;Beneath the bleeding hands we feelThe sharp compassion of the healer's artResolving the enigma of the fever chart.

    This is a blog about stillness and dancing, darkness and light, and the ways they enfold each other.

    And the deep lane insists on the direction

    The dripping blood our only drink, Raiding the inarticulate wilderness between faith and doubt.

    Nourishing the corn. Something I have said before. For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony The association of man and woman Register now and publish your best poems or read and bookmark your favorite popular famous poems. Undisciplined squads of emotion. I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you Love is most nearly itself As, in a theatre,The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changedWith a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panoramaAnd the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away—Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stationsAnd the conversation rises and slowly fades into silenceAnd you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepenLeaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hopeFor hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faithBut the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasyNot lost, but requiring, pointing to the agonyOf death and birth. And snowdrops writhing under feet Home is where one starts from. T.S.

    We must be still and still moving

    And menaced by monsters, fancy lights, In that open fieldIf you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,On a summer midnight, you can hear the musicOf the weak pipe and the little drumAnd see them dancing around the bonfireThe association of man and womanIn daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—A dignified and commodiois sacrament.Two and two, necessarye coniunction,Holding eche other by the hand or the armWhiche betokeneth concorde.

    I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. In order to arrive there, The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry, I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope. Here or there does not matter In successionHouses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their placeIs an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earthWhich is already flesh, fur and faeces,Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.Houses live and die: there is a time for buildingAnd a time for living and for generationAnd a time for the wind to break the loosened paneAnd to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trotsAnd to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

    Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark, I am here That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestleWith words and meanings. And hollyhocks that aim too high

    In the knowledge derived from experience. Our only health is the disease Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone. I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots

    Endowed by the ruined millionaire,

    In succession Our only health is the diseaseIf we obey the dying nurseWhose constant care is not to pleaseBut to remind of our, and Adam's curse,And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse. Which is already flesh, fur and faeces, Shall I say it again? Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth Houses live and die: there is a time for building The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated The world to that destructive fire The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant, Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning. The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,

    That seem unpropitious. For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, Feet rising and falling.Eating and drinking. As we grow olderThe world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicatedOf dead and living.

    The time of the coupling of man and woman In the general mess of imprecision of feeling, “East Coker… You must go through the way in which you are not. If we obey the dying nurse

    For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, For love would be love of the wrong thing; ... Top poems List all ... East Coker.

    I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope But perhaps neither gain nor loss.

    Through the dark cold and the empty desolation, Into the village, in the electric heat

    “I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. For the pattern is new in every moment

    You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy. I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. The rest is not our business.

    Now the light falls

    A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, Eliot. Diana Marrone. I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf. As, in a theatre,

    But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane

    They all go into the dark,The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de GothaAnd the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury.I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon youWhich shall be the darkness of God. To emulate—but there is no competition—

    For a further union, a deeper communion Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—

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