Ash Wednesday by T.S.Eliot

I
Because I do not hope to turn againBecause I do not hope

Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope

I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)

Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again The infirm glory of the positive hour

Because I do not think Because I know I shall not know

The one veritable transitory power Because I cannot drink There,

where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place

And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place

I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessed face

And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again

Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget

These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain

Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done,

not to be done again May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air

The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will

Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death

Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree

In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity

On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained

In the hollow round of my skull. And God said

Shall these bones live? shall these Bones live?

And that which had been contained In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:

Because of the goodness of this Lady And because of her loveliness,

and because She honours the Virgin in meditation, We shine with brightness.

And I who am here dissembled Proffer my deeds to oblivion,

and my love To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.

It is this which recovers My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions

Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn

In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.

Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness. There is no life in them.

As I am forgotten And would be forgotten, so I would forget

Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said Prophesy to the wind,

to the wind only for only The wind will listen.

and the bones sang chirping With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences Calm and distressed

Torn and most whole Rose of memory Rose of forgetfulness

Exhausted and life-giving Worried reposeful

The single Rose Is now the Garden Where all loves end

Terminate torment Of love unsatisfied

The greater torment Of love satisfied

End of the endless Journey to no end Conclusion of all

that Is inconclusible Speech without word and Word of no speech

Grace to the Mother For the Garden Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining

We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,

Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,

Forgetting themselves and each other, united In the quiet of the desert.

This is the land which ye Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity Matters.

This is the land. We have our inheritance.

III
At the first turning of the second stair I turned and saw below

The same shape twisted on the banister Under the vapour in the fetid air

Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair I left them twisting, turning below;

There were no more faces and the stair was dark, Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth

drivelling, beyond repair, Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.

At the first turning of the third stair Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit

And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene

The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.

Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown, Lilac and brown hair;

Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,

Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair

Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy Lord, I am not worthy but speak the word only.

IV
Who walked between the violet and the violet Who walked between

The various ranks of varied green Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,

Talking of trivial things In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour

Who moved among the others as they walked,

Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,

Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing Away the fiddles and the flutes,

restoring One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded. The new years walk, restoring

Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring With a new verse the ancient rhyme.

Redeem The time. Redeem The unread vision in the higher dream

While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue Between the yews, behind the garden god,

Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down

Redeem the time, redeem the dream The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

V
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent

If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard;

Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,

The Word without a word, the Word within

The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness

and Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled

About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word Resound?

Not here, there is not enough silence

Not on the sea or on the islands,

not On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,

For those who walk in darkness

Both in the day time and in the night time

The right time and the right place are not here

No place of grace for those who avoid the face

No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for Those who walk in darkness,

who chose thee and oppose thee,

Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,

time and time, between Hour and hour, word and word, power and power,

those who wait In darkness?

Will the veiled sister pray For children at the gate

Who will not go away and cannot pray:

Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender Yew trees pray for those who offend her

And are terrified and cannot surrender

And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks

In the last desert before the last blue rocks

The desert in the garden the garden in the desert

Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

O my people.

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.

Blessed 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.

`Ash-Wednesday', from Collected Poems 1909-1962 by T S Eliot, © T S Eliot 1963