The Fairest of the Seasons

by Jackson Browne

Now that it's time
Now that the hour hand has landed at the end
Now that it's real
Now that the dreams have given all they had to lend
I want to know, do I stay or do I go
And maybe try another time?
And do I really have a hand in my forgetting?

Now that I've tried
Now that I've finally found that this is not the way
Now that I turn
Now that I feel it's time to spend the night away
I want to know, do I stay or do I go
And maybe finally split the rhyme?
And do I really understand the undernetting?

Yes, and the morning has me looking in your eyes
And seeing mine warning me
To read the signs carefully

Now that it's light
Now that the candle's falling smaller in my mind
Now that it's here
Now that I'm almost not so very far behind
I want to know, do I stay or do I go
And maybe follow another sign?
And do I really have a song that I can ride on?

Now that I can
Now that it's easy, ever easy all around
Now that I'm here
Now that I'm falling to the sunlights and a song
I want to know, do I stay or do I go
And do I have to do just one?
And can I choose again if I should lose the reason?

Yes, and the morning has me looking in your eyes
And seeing mine warning me
To read the signs more carefully

Now that I smile
Now that I'm laughing even deeper inside
Now that I see
Now that I finally found the one thing I denied
It's now I know, but do I stay or do I go?
And it is finally I decide
That I'll be leaving in the fairest of the seasons

Little Gidding (Pt. V)

[Pt. IV here]
by T.S. Eliot

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this
Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

Lead of Love

by Aaron Tate

Looking back at the road so far
The journey's left its share of scars
Mostly from leaving the narrow and straight

Looking back, it is clear to me
That a man is more than the sum of his deeds
And how you've made good of this mess I've made
Is a profound mystery

Looking back you know you had to bring me through
All that I was so afraid of
Though I questioned the sky
Now I see why

I had to walk the rocks to see the mountain view
Looking back I see the lead of love

Looking back I can finally see
How failures bring humility
Brings me to my knees
Helps me see my need for thee

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.