Marina <br />By T.S. Eliot read by David Hart <br /><br />Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga? <br /><br />What seas what shores what grey rocks and what islands <br />What water lapping the bow <br />And scent of pine and the woodthrush singing through the fog <br />What images return <br />O my daughter. <br /><br />Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning <br />Death <br />Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning <br />Death <br />Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning <br />Death <br />Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning <br />Death <br /><br />Are become insubstantial, reduced by a wind, <br />A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog <br />By this grace dissolved in place <br /><br />What is this face, less clear and clearer <br />The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger— <br />Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye <br />Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet <br />Under sleep, where all the waters meet. <br /><br />Bowsprit cracked with ice and paint cracked with heat. <br />I made this, I have forgotten <br />And remember. <br />The rigging weak and the canvas rotten <br />Between one June and another September. <br />Made this unknowing, half conscious, unknown, my own. <br />The garboard strake leaks, the seams need caulking. <br />This form, this face, this life <br />Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me <br />Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken, <br />The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships. <br /><br />What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers <br />And woodthrush calling through the fog <br />My daughter.
