Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

-- 'East Coker' 

The light that filters for our 'burnt' Norton. 


On Sunday, June 5, 2016, Chanan Mittal <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
For poetry fans, Burnt Norton is already famous. Conroy and Caroline are used to busloads of Eliot obsessives turning up to wander around the gardens. In the summer hundreds of orchids spring up on the lawns and the view across the Vale of Evesham is magnificent. Higher up is an amphitheatre, now overgrown, and, beneath a wood of 700-year-old yew trees, a ruined baroque temple – all that’s left of Keyt’s mad, magnificent folly.


A lifetime burning in love, that's what it must've signified to our Norton.