Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither flesh nor fleshless Neither from nor towards at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. The dance along the artery The circulation of the lymph Are figured in the drift of stars Ascend to summer in the tree We move above the moving tree In light upon the figured leaf And hear upon the sodden floor Below, the boarhound and the boar Pursue their pattern as before But reconciled among the stars. The trilling wire in the blood Sings below inveterate scars Appeasing long forgotten wars. II Garlic and sapphires in the mud Clot the bedded axle-tree. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality. Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.

Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, The surface glittered out of heart of light, And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern, Along the empty alley, into the box circle, To look down into the drained pool. There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.

There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. Shall we follow? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves I do not know. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. Diels: Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (Herakleitos) I Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future And time future contained in time past.

Four quartets text