Words From An Early Liberal
"No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every
man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee
washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie
were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any
mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And
therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for
thee...."
Down The Vast Edges Drear
and so not to draw out the poem into pieces of time too far to remain entrained within its' thrall we enter the middle ground where faith somehow, always how, even when we deny it how, enters stage left to let us know that even in dying it is in our thoughts, even in denial it rhymes in counter-point, even when retreating we know it's there
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
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