I

      Midwinter spring is its own season

      Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,

      Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.

      When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,

      The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,

      In windless cold that is the heart's heat,

      Reflecting in a watery mirror

      A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.

      And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,

      Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire

      In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing

      The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell

      Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time

      But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow

      Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom

      Of snow, a bloom more sudden

      Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,

      Not in the scheme of generation.

      Where is the summer, the unimaginable

      Zero summer?

     

                           If you came this way,

      Taking the route you would be likely to take

      From the place you would be likely to come from,

      If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges

      White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.

      It would be the same at the end of the journey,

      If you came at night like a broken king,

      If you came by day not knowing what you came for,

      It would be the same, when you leave the rough road

      And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade

      And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for

      Is only a shell, a husk of meaning

      From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled

      If at all. Either you had no purpose

      Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured

      And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places

      Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,

      Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—

      But this is the nearest, in place and time,

      Now and in England.

     

                                   If you came this way,

      Taking any route, starting from anywhere,

      At any time or at any season,

      It would always be the same: you would have to put off

      Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,

      Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity

      Or carry report. You are here to kneel

      Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more

      Than an order of words, the conscious occupation

      Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.

      And what the dead had no speech for, when living,

      They can tell you, being dead: the communication

      Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

      Here, the intersection of the timeless moment

      Is England and nowhere. Never and always.

      II

      Ash on and old man's sleeve

      Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.

      Dust in the air suspended

      Marks the place where a story ended.

      Dust inbreathed was a house—

      The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,

      The death of hope and despair,

             This is the death of air.

     

      There are flood and drouth

      Over the eyes and in the mouth,

      Dead water and dead sand

      Contending for the upper hand.

      The parched eviscerate soil

      Gapes at the vanity of toil,

      Laughs without mirth.

             This is the death of earth.

 

      Water and fire succeed

      The town, the pasture and the weed.

      Water and fire deride

      The sacrifice that we denied.

      Water and fire shall rot

      The marred foundations we forgot,

      Of sanctuary and choir.

             This is the death of water and fire.

 

      In the uncertain hour before the morning

           Near the ending of interminable night

           At the recurrent end of the unending

      After the dark dove with the flickering tongue

           Had passed below the horizon of his homing

           While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin

      Over the asphalt where no other sound was

           Between three districts whence the smoke arose

           I met one walking, loitering and hurried

      As if blown towards me like the metal leaves

           Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.

           And as I fixed upon the down-turned face

      That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge

           The first-met stranger in the waning dusk

           I caught the sudden look of some dead master

      Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled

           Both one and many; in the brown baked features

           The eyes of a familiar compound ghost

      Both intimate and unidentifiable.

           So I assumed a double part, and cried

           And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?'

      Although we were not. I was still the same,

           Knowing myself yet being someone other—

           And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed

      To compel the recognition they preceded.

           And so, compliant to the common wind,

           Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,

      In concord at this intersection time

           Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,

           We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.

      I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy,

           Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:

           I may not comprehend, may not remember.'

      And he: 'I am not eager to rehearse

           My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.

           These things have served their purpose: let them be.

      So with your own, and pray they be forgiven

           By others, as I pray you to forgive

           Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten

      And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.

           For last year's words belong to last year's language

           And next year's words await another voice.

      But, as the passage now presents no hindrance

           To the spirit unappeased and peregrine

           Between two worlds become much like each other,

      So I find words I never thought to speak

           In streets I never thought I should revisit

           When I left my body on a distant shore.

      Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us

           To purify the dialect of the tribe

           And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,

      Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age

           To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.

           First, the cold friction of expiring sense

      Without enchantment, offering no promise

           But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit

           As body and soul begin to fall asunder.

      Second, the conscious impotence of rage

           At human folly, and the laceration

           Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.

      And last, the rending pain of re-enactment

           Of all that you have done, and been; the shame

           Of motives late revealed, and the awareness

      Of things ill done and done to others' harm

           Which once you took for exercise of virtue.

           Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.

      From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit

           Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire

           Where you must move in measure, like a dancer.'

      The day was breaking. In the disfigured street

           He left me, with a kind of valediction,

           And faded on the blowing of the horn.

      III

      There are three conditions which often look alike

      Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:

      Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment

      From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them,
      indifference

      Which resembles the others as death resembles life,

      Being between two lives—unflowering, between

      The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:

      For liberation—not less of love but expanding

      Of love beyond desire, and so liberation

      From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country

      Begins as attachment to our own field of action

      And comes to find that action of little importance

      Though never indifferent. History may be servitude,

      History may be freedom. See, now they vanish,

      The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,

      To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.

 

      Sin is Behovely, but

      All shall be well, and

      All manner of thing shall be well.

      If I think, again, of this place,

      And of people, not wholly commendable,

      Of no immediate kin or kindness,

      But of some peculiar genius,

      All touched by a common genius,

      United in the strife which divided them;

      If I think of a king at nightfall,

      Of three men, and more, on the scaffold

      And a few who died forgotten

      In other places, here and abroad,

      And of one who died blind and quiet

      Why should we celebrate

      These dead men more than the dying?

      It is not to ring the bell backward

      Nor is it an incantation

      To summon the spectre of a Rose.

      We cannot revive old factions

      We cannot restore old policies

      Or follow an antique drum.

      These men, and those who opposed them

      And those whom they opposed

      Accept the constitution of silence

      And are folded in a single party.

      Whatever we inherit from the fortunate

      We have taken from the defeated

      What they had to leave us—a symbol:

      A symbol perfected in death.

      And all shall be well and

      All manner of thing shall be well

      By the purification of the motive

      In the ground of our beseeching.

      IV

      The dove descending breaks the air

      With flame of incandescent terror

      Of which the tongues declare

      The one discharge from sin and error.

      The only hope, or else despair

           Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre—

           To be redeemed from fire by fire.

 

      Who then devised the torment? Love.

      Love is the unfamiliar Name

      Behind the hands that wove

      The intolerable shirt of flame

      Which human power cannot remove.

           We only live, only suspire

           Consumed by either fire or fire.

      V

      What we call the beginning is often the end

      And to make and end is to make a beginning.

      The end is where we start from. And every phrase

      And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,

      Taking its place to support the others,

      The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,

      An easy commerce of the old and the new,

      The common word exact without vulgarity,

      The formal word precise but not pedantic,

      The complete consort dancing together)

      Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,

      Every poem an epitaph. And any action

      Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat

      Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.

      We die with the dying:

      See, they depart, and we go with them.

      We are born with the dead:

      See, they return, and bring us with them.

      The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree

      Are of equal duration. A people without history

      Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern

      Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails

      On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel

      History is now and England.

 

      With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

 

      We shall not cease from exploration

      And the end of all our exploring

      Will be to arrive where we started

      And know the place for the first time.

      Through the unknown, unremembered gate

      When the last of earth left to discover

      Is that which was the beginning;

      At the source of the longest river

      The voice of the hidden waterfall

      And the children in the apple-tree

      Not known, because not looked for

      But heard, half-heard, in the stillness

      Between two waves of the sea.

      Quick now, here, now, always—

      A condition of complete simplicity

      (Costing not less than everything)

      And all shall be well and

      All manner of thing shall be well

      When the tongues of flame are in-folded

      Into the crowned knot of fire

      And the fire and the rose are one.