There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not. You shall not deny the Stranger. - T. S. Eliot

Who is the third who walks always beside you When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you

What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.

When the day's hustle and bustle is done, Then the Gumbie Cat's work is but hardly begun.