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But "all is always now," announce the Quartets.

And this was prefigured too:

"Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?"

The joy of Easter lingers in the air.

CR


On Sunday, April 10, 2016, Chanan Mittal <[log in to unmask]> wrote:

> "O City city, I can sometimes hear
> Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
> The pleasant whining of a mandoline
> And a clatter and a chatter from within
> Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
> Of Magnus Martyr hold
> Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold."
>
> CR
>
> On Sunday, April 10, 2016, Chanan Mittal <[log in to unmask]
> <javascript:_e(%7B%7D,'cvml',[log in to unmask]);>> wrote:
>
>> "In this decayed hole among the mountains
>> In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
>> Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
>> There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
>> It has no windows, and the door swings,
>> Dry bones can harm no one.
>> Only a cock stood on the rooftree
>> Co co rico co co rico
>> In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
>> Bringing rain"
>>
>> CR
>>
>> On Sunday, April 10, 2016, Chanan Mittal <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>>
>>> Memory, you have the key.
>>> Indeed.
>>> CR
>>>
>>> On Sunday, April 10, 2016, Chanan Mittal <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>>>
>>>> "April is the cruelest month, breeding
>>>> lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
>>>> memory and desire, stirring
>>>> dull roots with spring rain."
>>>>
>>>> ("He who was living is now dead")
>>>>
>>>> And vis-a-vis "spring rain" the memory and desire of another April:
>>>>
>>>> "WHAN that Aprille with his shoures soote
>>>> The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
>>>> And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
>>>> Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
>>>> Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
>>>> Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
>>>> The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
>>>> Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
>>>> And smale fowles maken melodye,
>>>> That slepen al the night with open ye,
>>>> (So priketh hem nature in hir corages:
>>>> Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
>>>> And palmers for to seken straunge strondes,
>>>> To ferne halwes, couthe in sondry londes;
>>>> And specially, from every shires ende
>>>> Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
>>>> The holy blisful martir for to seke,
>>>> That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke."
>>>>
>>>> Well a thought that has prefigured many a time vis-a-vis the opening
>>>> lines of 'The Waste Land.'
>>>>
>>>> CR
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>