What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and woodthrush singing through the
Fog
What images return
O my daughter.....
What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger
Given or lent? More distant than stars and nearer than the eye...
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying
Feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet.
T.S. Eliot: Marina
