I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope

For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love

For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith

But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:

So the darkness shall be the light and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightening.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ectasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and Birth.

-T.S. Eliot - No 2 of The Four Quartets