Extract from Burnt Norton T S Eliot

                      Small flowers

 

http://www.davidgorman.com/4Quartets/1-norton.htm

Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.

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About Kate Thwaite

I love writing , conversation, art, wild flowers, music and air.And books
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