Marina by TS Eliot (excerpts)

Veronica Dudley

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