| The dove descending |  |
| By T. S. Eliot | |||
| Sunday, 27 June 2010 | |||
| The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror Of which the tongues declare The one discharge from sin and error. The only hope, or else despair Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre- To be redeemed from fire by fire. Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove. We only live, only suspire
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