Where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,
The silent withering of autumn flowers
Dropping their petals and remaining
motionless;
Where is there and end to the drifting wreckage ...
There is no end, but addition: the trailing
Consequence of further days and hours,
While emotion takes to itself the emotionless
Years of living among the breakage
Of what was believed in as the most reliable
And therefore the fittest for
renunciation.
('The Dry Salvages')
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