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Marina
What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the bow
And scent of pine and the 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
I made this, I have forgotten
And remember.
Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own.
This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me
What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter
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— T. S. Eliot
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