T.S. Eliot's family's former 7-bedroom/ 3-bath summer house in Gloucester, Massachusetts is up for sale, for $1.3 million.
Do I dare to say a thought?
He might've worn white flannel trousers, and walked upon that beach
and heard the mermaids singing,
though probably not to him.
I’ve not lingered in the chambers of the sea, like he.
Human voices wake us, t’is true
but they also put us to sleep
(except those of certain poets)
And dare I say,
what we ultimately drown from
differs.
Who couldn't write in such a space!
(says my awe-stricken imagination, comparing . . .)
but muses choose the time and place,
and circumstance; don't
forget the prevailing whateverelses.
Apologies to T.S. Eliot for borrowing some words here.
The pruf is in the frock
Either it fits or it
doesn't. But that thought about
our old houses and their handed-down rooms, as
shrines -
I hear some mermaids leaving
