The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.
The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.
The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.
The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
T.S. Eliot, "East Coker"
Comments (3)
A compelling meditation on Good Friday, Lydia. To continue a little bit:
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
(Does the social thought and cultural assumptions of T S Eliot ever get examined on WWWW?)
Posted by Alex | April 22, 2011 2:48 AM
Why would the social thought and cultural assumptions of Eliot be examined on WWWW? Wasn't Eliot, in the final analysis, an existentialist?
Ezra Pound would be more interesting to examine.
Posted by Thomas Yeutter | April 22, 2011 9:17 AM
Thank you for posting this, Lydia; I love this poem, and it's such a moving reflection for this day.
Posted by Beth Impson | April 22, 2011 9:27 AM