(no subject)
Garlic and Sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled amoung the stars.
At still the point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movements from nor towards,
Neither ascent nore decling. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
A God without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both as a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstacy,
The resolution of it's partial horror.
Yet the enchantmen of past and future
Woven in the weakenss of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled amoung the stars.
At still the point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movements from nor towards,
Neither ascent nore decling. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
A God without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both as a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstacy,
The resolution of it's partial horror.
Yet the enchantmen of past and future
Woven in the weakenss of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.