Desire itself is movement Not in itself desireable; Love is itself unmoving, Only the cause and end of movement, Timeless, and undesiring Except in the aspect of time Caught in the form of limitation Between un-being and being. Sudden in a shaft of sunlight Even while the dust moves There rises the hidden laughter Of children in the foliage Quick now, here, now, always— Ridiculous the waste sad time Stretching before and after. ~ the closing lines to section V of Burnt Norton, Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot, (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1971)
Posted on: Sat, 12 Apr 2014 16:05:23 +0000
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