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.

T.S.Eliot, Four Quartets (Little Gidding, III)

2 comentários:

Isabel disse...

Para a troca:
"When each gladness has gone
gathering sorrow may cloud the brain
and in his heart a man cannot see
how his sorrows will end.
That went by. This may too."

Deor (anonymous mediaeval poet).

Anónimo disse...

Magnífico.Relembremos,um pouco na mesma linha,o que nos diz outra alta figura:

Não consentem os deuses mais que a vida.
Tudo pois refusemos,que nos alce
A irrespiráveis píncaros,
Perenes sem ter flores.
Só de aceitar tenhamos a ciência.
E enquanto o sangue bate em nossas fontes,
Nem se engelha comnosco
O mesmo amor,duremos
Como vidros,às luzes transparentes
E deixando escorrer a chuva triste,
Só mornos ao sol quente,
E reflectindo um pouco.