Saturday, May 31, 2008

for T. S. Eliot

What else is there for us but to advance,
Defining progress as our end and aim,
Unless we view our history as a dance
Moving through complex patterns like a game.

The case for progress claims we shall evolve
And though we’ll wreak great havoc on the Earth,
We know that growing wisdom can resolve
Our wicked waywardness and prove our worth.

The other way of seeing us reveals
That souls recycle through their worldly rounds,
Life after life, and play the hands Fate deals
Within a pattern of fixed rules and bounds.

The end of all our revolutions shows
The place where we began is where we’ll close.