Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
Eliot offers an incantatory understanding of transience and perspective here. I don’t think anymore needs to be said. Detached faithfulness to the arbitrary, perfectly rendered. Genius.