As a Lit major, I love poetry. If you had told me that the hours I spent analyzing it and writing papers would make me actually memorize passages I would have told you I’m not that hardcore.<\/p>\n

And yet.<\/p>\n

It comes to me at unexpected moments. When I wrote the post about the latest<\/a> in our CKD Adventure<\/a>, T.S. Eliot<\/a> kept popping into my head.<\/p>\n

And indeed there will be time <\/em>
\nFor the yellow smoke that slides along the street, <\/em>
\nRubbing its back upon the window-panes; <\/em>
\nThere will be time, there will be time <\/em>
\nTo prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; <\/em>
\nThere will be time to murder and create, <\/em>
\nAnd time for all the works and days of hands <\/em>
\nThat lift and drop a question on your plate; \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 <\/em>
\nTime for you and time for me, <\/em>
\nAnd time yet for a hundred indecisions <\/em>
\nAnd for a hundred visions and revisions <\/em>
\nBefore the taking of a toast and tea.
\n– The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Eliot transcends my thoughts so that I know that we have plenty of time. And things will change, and change again, and there will still be time.<\/p>\n

As I was driving home last night I got parts of Eliot’s Little Gidding<\/em>.<\/p>\n

We die with the dying:
\nSee, they depart, and we go with them.
\nWe are born with the dead:
\nSee, they return, and bring us with them.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Today is a day of hushed conversations behind closed doors. Of waiting for the phone to ring and hoping that it doesn’t. People’s lives will change today.<\/p>\n

What we call the beginning is often the end
\nAnd to make and end is to make a beginning.
\nThe end is where we start from. And every phrase
\nAnd sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
\nTaking its place to support the others,
\nThe word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
\nAn easy commerce of the old and the new,
\nThe common word exact without vulgarity,
\nThe formal word precise but not pedantic,
\nThe complete consort dancing together)
\nEvery phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
\nEvery poem an epitaph. And any action
\nIs a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat
\nOr to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
\nWe die with the dying:
\nSee, they depart, and we go with them.
\nWe are born with the dead:
\nSee, they return, and bring us with them.
\nThe moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
\nAre of equal duration. A people without history
\nIs not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
\nOf timeless moments. So, while the light fails
\nOn a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel
\nHistory is now and England.
\n<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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