T. S. Eliot is one of my favorite poets. I don't know what that really says about me... he can be depressing at times. But he is so insightful and deep. I think I like his work because he felt life intensely and was able to translate this intensity into poetry.
To imagine what the Magi thought is an incredible undertaking. So little is said of them in scripture that ...well, it started me thinking about what we do know about them. Most Christians today would have nothing to do with "such men". These men were star-gazers, they were men of "witchcraft" and "foretunetelling".
And yet, they were the ones who traveled across the world to visit the Christ Child. A very difficult journey. They brought him extremely expensive gifts. This was a Journey of sacrifice and devotion. I am sure every time I read this poem, I will have more concepts of what Eliot meant when he wrote this, and as of yet, I am searching for meaning in it. The deep meaning of life and all. I think its time to go to bed ;)
'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kiking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
