ash wednesday

• waste land ve four quartets ile birlikte bir butunun parcalarini olusturdugunu dusundugum t s eliot siiri
  
  ash-wednesday
  
  i
  because i do not hope to turn again
  because 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.
  
  (bkz: faber and faber)