The Descent by William Carlos Williams
The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned. Memory is a kind of accomplishment, a sort of renewal even an initiation, since the spaces it opens are new places inhabited by hordes heretofore unrealized, of new kinds— since their movements are toward new objectives (even though formerly they were abandoned). No defeat is made up entirely of defeat—since the world it opens is always a place formerly unsuspected. A world lost, a world unsuspected, beckons to new places and no whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory of whiteness . With evening, love wakens though its shadows which are alive by reason of the sun shining— grow sleepy now and drop away from desire . Love without shadows stirs now beginning to awaken as night advances. The descent made up of despairs and without accomplishment realizes a new awakening: which is a reversal of despair. For what we cannot accomplish, what is denied to love, what we have lost in the anticipation— a descent follows, endless and indestructible
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I like. The “let down” after a good chase! But what would life be without passions that cause us to run? And then, the memory thereof.