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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]');" target="_blank">[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