For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which One is no longer disposed to say it. With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling, Undisciplined squads of emotion. But perhaps neither gain nor loss. For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
Home is where one starts from.
As we grow older the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated Of dead and living. Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter. Here or there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For a further union, a deeper communion Through the dark cold and the empty desolation, The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.