Man kan bara finna ord för sådant man inte längre har lust att uttrycka

Det finns sajter man kommer till genom att googla frasen "that does not leave us, but prevents us everywhere" .
För att göra det måste man kanske ha läst T.S. Eliot i sin ungdom och blivit djupt fascinerad av diktverket The Four Quartets.
Jag skulle kunna breda ut mig om det i timmar men nöjer mig med ett utdrag.
Observera att blogformatet får dikten att se ganska vanlig ut.
VI kanske läser mer poesi än vi vet om...

clipped from alumni.imsa.edu So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years- Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres- Trying to use words, and every attempt Is a wholy new start, and a different kind of failure Because one has only learnt to get the better of words For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate, With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling, Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer By strength and submission, has already been discovered Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope To emulate - but there is no competition - There is only the fight to recover what has been lost And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss. For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.