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

— T. S. Eliot

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