When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
This is just one instance from the whole corpus of Eliot's poetry.
I'm not proposing the consideration of just the 'Love Song' here.
Please consider all the poetry Eliot chose to publish.
AND THIS IS THE CLAIM I'M MAKING FOR THIS POETRY --
THAT HERE IS THE ONLY POETRY OF ITS TYPE WHERE
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph.
From first to last? You'll ask. Aye, and that's the miracle.
Where every phrase, if not every word, invites you
to reflect harder, and still harder, to reach out
to its absolute meaning.
As, indeed, the master explicitly desired.
I had had occasion to refer to the maestro's dictum
about the need to assert the 'absolute' meaning of
a poem even if it meant different things to different
LET us go then, you and I ...