Continuing with Ash Wednesday.
Eliot was a master of symbols: the white Lady is the virgin: the object of Catholic Veneration for many a soldier/scholar and physician/monk, but not, the woman of righteousness who venerates the virgin and was the sister who chose a religious life (for white reflects purity). He is reflecting on the Jeremiad: and hope. For when Jeremiah prophesied to the bones, there was a mighty army.
Modern man has been taught both materialism, that there is nothing but bones, and existentialism: that choosing that the bones have meaning will suffice. However, the Lady, succour and salvation are lost, and we are then scattered randomly, without meaning.
Only a delusion that we have choice. Eliot had the courage to reject this, turn to Christ, and take his religion akin to his whisky. Neat.
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
T.S. Eliot, 1930