T.S.
Eliot (b. USA / England)
1888-1965
Born
the seventh child of a prominent executive of the Hydraulic Press Brick Company
in St. Louis, Missouri, Thomas Stearns Eliot came from a family that included
his grandfather, the founder of Washington University in St. Louis and a
cousin, Charles William Eliot, present of Harvard University. His mother, a
poet and biographer, was highly influential upon Eliot’s talents as a literary
figure.
As a teenager, Eliot attended Smith
Academy and the Milton Academy, and he entered Harvard, beginning in 1906,
graduating in 1909, and continuing studies in philosophy in 1909. Influenced by
the anti-Romanticism of his teacher Irving Babbitt and my reading Arthur
Symon’s influential study of French poetry, The Symbolist Movement in
Literature, Eliot turned increasingly to poetry, writing his first major work,
“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” at Harvard in 1910.
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The London literary scene, consisting of
figures as vastly different of Yeats, Ford Madox Ford, and young Americans such
as Ezra Pound and Robert Frost, all of whom contributed to his self-education
which led him further into modernism. By 1915, Eliot had begun to doubt that he
wanted to finish his degree in philosophy. But the war, which kept him in
England and killed his friend Verdenal, gradually began to effect a change upon
him. His friendship with Verdenal, as has recently been shown by critics, was
an important aspect of his life, involving a relationship that appears to have
been one of deep love, and, possibly, a homosexual involvement; with Verdenal’s
death, Eliot shifted from his love of France to a realignment with England, as
he suddenly married Vivien Haigh-Wood, a talented woman who soon began to
suffer from several nervous disorders that would soon characterize her as an
“invalid.” Eliot attempted to support himself and his wife by teaching at
various schools and, finally, as a clerk in Lloyd’s Bank.
Despite the demands of his job, however,
he continued to write, publishing Prufock and Other Observations in 1917 and,
two years later, Poems. In 1919, upon the death of his father, Eliot also had
to take over some of the care of his mother. But he continued to write,
publishing his first critical study, The Sacred Wood in 1920, a book that
contained many of his most important critical statements, including “Tradition
and the Individual Talent.”
The difficulties of her personal life increased
as Vivien was further troubled with illness and various obsessions. Eliot
worked six days a week at Lloyd’s, while at the same time composing his
masterpiece, The Waste Land, which was published in 1922, the year also
of James Joyce’s Ulysses. The same year he began editing the journal Criterion
and in 1925 joined the publishing company of Faber and Faber, where he would
remain for the rest of his life.
During this difficult decade, Eliot grew
more and more religious, converting to the Anglican Church. By the end of the
decade he had become a British citizen. In 1932 he separated for his wife,
becoming a flat-mate of the witty British critic, John Hayward. Vivien remained
hospitalized in a sanatorium, where she died in 1947. Eliot continued to write
critical works such as The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism, plays
in verse (Murder in the Cathedral, The Family Reunion, The
Cocktail Party, and The Confidential Clerk) and new collections of
poetry, most particularly the religiously-based cycle of poems, Four
Quartets. In 1948 he won the Nobel Prize and in 1954 the Hanseatic Goethe
Prize.
In 1957 he married his secretary, Valerie
Fletcher, who would later publish a facsimile copy of The Waste Land. He
died in 1965.
BOOKS
OF POETRY
Prufrock
and Other Observations (London: The Egoist, 1917); Poems (Richmond
Surrey: The Hogarth Press, 1919); Ara Vos Prec (London: The Ovid Press,
1920/ New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1920); The Waste Land (New York: Boni
and Liveright, 1922); Poems 1909-1925 (London: Faber & Gwyer, 1925);
Journey of the Magi (London: Faber & Gwyer, 1927); A Song for
Simeon (London: Faber & Gwyer, 1928); Animula (London: Faber
& Faber, 1929); Ash-Wednesday (London: Faber & Faber, 1930/New
York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1930); Marina (London: Faber & Faber,
1930); Triumphal March (London: Faber & Faber, 1931); Words for
Music (Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania: Bryn Mawr Press, 1935); Two Poems
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1935); Collected Poems 1909-1935
(London: Faber & Faber, 1936; New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co, 1939); Old
Possum’s Book of Practical Cats (London: Faber & Faber, 1939/New York:
Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1939); East Coker (London: The New English
Weekly, 1940/London: Faber & Faber, 1940); Burnt Norton (London:
Faber & Faber, 1941); The Dry Salvages (London: Faber & Faber,
1941); Little Gidding (London: Faber & Faber, 1942); Four
Quartets (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Col, 1943/London: Faber &
Faber, 1944); A Practical Possum (Cambridge: Harvard Printing Office and
Department of Graphic Arts, 1947); The Undergraduate Poems (Cambridge:
The Harvard Advocate, 1949); Poems Written in Early Youth (Stockholm:
Privately printed, 1950); Collected Poems of T. S. Eliot 1909-1962 (New
York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1963).
The
Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io
credissi che mia risposta fosse
A
persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa
fiamma staria senza più scosse.
Ma
per ciò che giammai di question fondo
Non
tornò vivo alcun, s’I’ odo il vero,
Senza
tema d’unfamia ti rispondo. *
Let
us go then, you and I,
When
the evening is spread out against the sky
Like
a patient etherized upon a table;
Let
us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The
muttering retreats
Of
restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And
sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets
that follow like a tedious argument
Of
insidious intent
To
lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh,
do not ask, “What is it?”
Let
us go and make our visit.
In
the room the women come and go
Talking
of Michelangelo.
The
yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The
yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked
its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered
upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let
fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped
by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And
seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled
once about the house, and fell asleep.
And
indeed there will be time
For
the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing
its back upon the window-panes;
There
will be time, there will be time
To
prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There
will be time to murder and create,
And
time for all the works and days of hands
That
lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time
for you and time for me,
And
time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And
for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before
the taking of a toast and tea.
In
the room the women come and go
Talking
of Michelangelo.
And
indeed there will be time
To
wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time
to turn back and descend the stair,
With
a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They
will say: “How his hair is growing then!”)
My
morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My
necktie rich and modes, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They
will say: “But how this arms and legs are then!”)
Do
I dare
Disturb
the universe?
In
a minute there is time
For
decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For
I have known them all already, known them all—
Have
known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I
have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I
know the voices dying with dying fall
Beneath
the music from a farther room.
So
how should I presume?
And
I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The
eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And
when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When
I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then
how should I begin
To
spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And
how should I presume?
And
I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms
that are braceleted and white and bare
(But
in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is
it perfume from a dress
That
makes me so digress?
Arms
that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And
should I then presume?
And
how should I begin?
…..
Shall
I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And
watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of
lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I
should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling
across the floors of silent seas
….
And
the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed
by long fingers,
Asleep…tired…or
it malingers,
Stretched
on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should
I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have
the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But
though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
though
I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I
am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I
have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And
I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And
in short, I was afraid.
And
would it have been worth it, after all,
After
the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among
the porcelain, among the talk of you and me,
Would
it have been worth while,
To
have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To
have squeezed the universe into a ball
To
roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To
say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come
back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If
one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should
say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That
is not it, at all.”
And
would it have been worth it, after all,
Would
it have been worth while,
After
the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After
the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And
this, and so much more?—
It
is impossible to say just what I mean!
But
as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would
it have been worth while
If
one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And
turning toward the window, should say:
“That
is not it at all,
That
is not what I meant, at all.”
….
No!
I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am
an attendant lord, one that will do
To
swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise
the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential,
glad to be of use,
Politic,
cautious, and meticulous;
Full
of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At
times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost,
at times, the Fool.
I
grow old…I grow old…
I
shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall
I part my hair behind? Do I dare to each a peach?
I
shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I
have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I
do not think that they will sing to me.
I
have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing
the white hair of the waves blown back
When
the wind blows the water white and black.
We
have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By
sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till
human voices wake us, and we drown.
(from
Prufrock and Other Observations, 1917)
Sweeney
Among the Nightingales
Apeneck
Sweeney spreads his knees
Letting
his arms hang down to laugh,
The
zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling
to maculate giraffe.
The
circles of the stormy moon
Slide
westward toward the River Plate,
Death
and the Raven drift above
And
Sweeney guards the horned gate.
Gloomy
Orion and the Dog
Are
veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
The
person in the Spanish cape
Tries
to sit on Sweeney’s knees
Slips
and pulls the table cloth
Overturns
a coffee-cup,
Reorganised
upon the floor
She
yawns and draws a stocking up;
The
silent man in mocha brown
Sprawls
at the window-sill and gapes;
The
waiter brings in oranges
Bananas
fig and hothouse grapes;
The
silent vertebrate in brown
Contracts
and concentrates, withdraws;
Rachel
née Rabinovitch
Tears
at the grapes with murderous paws;
She
and the lady in the cape
Are
suspect, though to be in league;
Therefore
the man with heavy eyes
Declines
the gambit, shows fatigue,
Leaves
the room and reappears
Outside
the window, leaning in,
Branches
of wisteria
Circumscribe
a golden grin;
The
host with someone indistinct
Converses
at the door apart,
The
nightingales are singing near
The
Convent of the Sacred Heart,
And
sang within the bloody wood
When
Agamemnon cried aloud
(Poems,
1919)
Gerontion
Thou
hast nor youth nor age
But
as it were an after dinner sleep
Dreaming
of both.
HERE
I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being
read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I
was neither at the hot gates
Nor
fought in the warm rain
Nor
knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten
by flies, fought.
My
house is a decayed house,
And
the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned
in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered
in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.
The
goat coughs at night in the field overhead;
Rocks,
moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
The
woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
Sneezes
at evening, poking the peevish gutter.
I
an old man,
A
dull head among windy spaces.
Signs
are taken for wonders. “We would see a sign!”
The
word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled
with darkness.
In
the juvescence of the year
Came
Christ the tiger
In
depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To
be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among
whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With
caressing hands, at Limoges
Who
walked all night in the next room;
By
Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By
Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting
the candles; Fräulein von Kulp
Who
turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttles
Weave
the wind. I have no ghosts,
An
old man in a draughty house
Under
a windy knob.
After
such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History
has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And
issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides
us by vanities. Think now
She
gives when our attention is distracted
And
what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That
the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What’s
not believed in, or if still believed,
In
memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
Into
weak hands, what’s thought can be dispensed with
Till
the refusal propagates a fear. Think
Neither
fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are
fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are
forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These
tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.
The
tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
We
have not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen
in a rented house. Think at last
I
have not made this show purposelessly
And
it is not by any concitation
Of
the backward devils
I
would meet you upon this honestly.
I
that was near your heart was removed therefrom
To
lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
I
have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
Since
what is kept must be adulterated?
I
have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How
should I use them for your closer contact?
These
with a thousand small deliberations
Protract
the profit of their chilled delirium,
Excite
the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
With
pungent sauces, multiply variety
In
a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do,
Suspend
its operations, will the weevil
Delay?
De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled
Beyond
the circuit of the shuddering Bear
In
fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits
Of
Belle Isle, or running on the Horn.
(from
Poems, 1919)
The
Waste Land
I.
The Burial of the Dead
April
is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs
out of the dead land, mixing
Memory
and desire, stirring
Dull
roots with spring rain.
Winter
kept us warm, covering
Earth
in forgetful snow, feeding
A
little life with dried tubers.
Summer
surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With
a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
And
went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And
drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin
gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And
when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,
My
cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And
I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie,
hold on tight. And down we went.
In
the mountains, there you feel free.
I
read, much of the night, and go south in winter.
What
are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out
of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You
cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A
heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And
the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And
the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There
is shadow under this red rock
(Come
in under the shadow of this red rock),
And
I will show you something different from either
Your
shadow at morning striding behind you
Or
your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I
will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch
weht der Wind
Der
heimat zu
Mein
Irisch kind,
Wo
weilest du?
"You
gave me hyacinths first a year ago;"
"They
called me the hyacinth girl."
--Yet
when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your
arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak,
and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living
nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking
into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed'
und leer das Meer.
Madame
Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Has
a bad cold, nevertheless
Is
known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With
a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is
your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor.
(Those
are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here
is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The
lady of situations.
Here
is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And
here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which
is blank, is something that he carries on his back,
Which
I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The
Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I
see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank
you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell
her I bring the horoscope myself;
One
must be so careful these days.
Unreal
City
Under
the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A
crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I
had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs,
short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And
each man fixed his eyes before his feet,
Flowed
up the hill and down King William Street
To
where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With
a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There
I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, "Stetson!
You
who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
That
corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has
it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or
has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh
keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
Or
with his nails he'll dig it up again!
You!
hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable!--mon frère!"
II.
A Game of Chess
The
Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed
on the marble, where the glass
Held
up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From
which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another
hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled
the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting
light upon the table as
The
glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From
satin cases poured in rich profusion.
In
vials of ivory and colored glass,
Unstoppered,
lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent,
powdered, or liquid--troubled, confused
And
drowned the sense in odors; stirred by the air
That
freshened from the window, these ascended
In
fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Stirring
the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge
sea-wood fed with copper
Burned
green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In
which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above
the antique mantle was displayed
As
though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The
change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So
rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled
all the desert with inviolable voice
And
still she cried, and still the world pursues,
"Jug
Jug" to dirty ears.
And
other withered stumps of time
Were
told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned
out, leaning, hushing the world enclosed.
Footsteps
shuffled on the stair.
Under
the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread
out in fiery points
Glowed
into words, then would be savagely still.
"My
nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
"Speak
to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
"What
are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
"I
never know what you are thinking. Think."
I
think we are in rats' alley
Where
the dead men lost their bones.
"What
is that noise?"
The
wind under the door.
"What
is that noise now? What is the wind doing?"
Nothing
again nothing.
"Do
"You
know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
"Nothing?"
I
remember
Those
are pearls that were his eyes.
"Are
you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?"
But
O
O O O that Shakespeherian Rag--
It's
so elegant
So
intelligent
"What
shall I do now? What shall I do?"
"I
shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
"With
my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
"What
shall we ever do?"
The
hot water at ten.
And,
if it rains, a closed car at four.
And
we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing
lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When
Lil's husband got demobbed, I said--
I
didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY
UP PLEASE IT'S TIME* [British call-out at pub closing time]
Now
Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll
want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To
get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You
have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He
said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And
no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert.
He's
been in the army four years, he wants a good time.
And
if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh
is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then
I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY
UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If
you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others
can pick and choose if you can't.
But
if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You
ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And
her only thirty-one.)
I
can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's
them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's
had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The
chemist said it would be all right, but I've never been the same.
You
are a proper fool, I said.
Well,
if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said.
What
you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY
UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well,
that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And
they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot--
HURRY
UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY
UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight
Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta
ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good
night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
III.
The Fire Sermon
The
river's tent is broken; the last fingers of leaf
Clutch
and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses
the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet
Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The
river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk
handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or
other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And
their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed,
have left no addresses.
By
the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet
Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet
Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But
at my back in a cold blast I hear
The
rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A
rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging
its slimy belly on the bank
While
I sat fishing in the dull canal
On
a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing
upon the king my brother's wreck
And
on the king my father's death before him.
White
bodies naked on the low damp ground
And
bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled
by the rat's foot only, year to year.
But
at my back from time to time I hear
The
sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney
to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O
the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And
on her daughter
They
wash their feet in soda water
Et
O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
['And
oh, the voices of the children singing in the dome!']
Twit
twit twit
Jug
jug jug jug jug jug
So
rudely forc'd
Tereu
Unreal
City
Under
the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr.
Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
C.i.f.
London: documents at sight,
Asked
me in demotic* French
To
luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed
by a weekend at the Metropole.
At
the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn
upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like
a taxi throbbing waiting,
I
Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old
man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At
the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward,
and brings the sailor home from sea,
The
typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her
stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out
of the window perilously spread
Her
drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
On
the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings,
slippers, camisoles and stays.
I
Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived
the scene, and foretold the rest--
I
too awaited the expected guest.
He,
the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A
small house agent's clerk, with a bold stare,
One
of the low on whom assurance sits
As
a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The
time is now propitious, as he guesses;
The
meal is ended, she is bored and tired.
Endeavors
to engage her in caresses
Which
still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed
and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring
hands encounter no defense.;
His
vanity requires no response,
And
makes a welcome of indifference.
(And
I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted
on this same divan or bed;
I
who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And
walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows
one final patronizing kiss,
And
gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .
She
turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly
aware of her departed lover;
Her
brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
"Well
now that's done, and I'm glad it's over."
When
lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces
about her room again, alone,
She
smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And
puts a record on the gramophone.
"The
music crept by me upon the waters",
And
along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O
City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside
a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The
pleasant whining of a mandoline
And
a clatter and a chatter from within
Where
fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of
Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable
splendor of Ionian white and gold.
The
river sweats
Oil
and tar
The
barges drift
With
the turning tide
Red
sails
Wide
To
leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The
barges wash
Drifting
logs
Down
Greenwich reach
Past
the Isle of Dogs.
Weialala
leia
Wallala
leialala
Elizabeth
and Leicester
Beating
oars
The
stern was formed
A
gilded shell
Red
and gold
The
brisk swell
Rippled
both shores
Southwest
wind
Carried
down stream
The
peal of bells
White
towers
Weialala
leia
Wallala
leialala
"Trams
and dusty trees.
Highbury
bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid
me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine
on the floor of a narrow canoe."
"My
feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under
my feet. After the event
He
wept. He promised `a new start.'
I
made no comment. What should I resent?"
"On
Margate Sands
I
can connect
Nothing
with nothing.
The
broken fingernails of dirty hands
My
people humble people who expect
Nothing."
la
la
To
Carthage then I came
Burning
burning burning burning
O
Lord thou pluckest me out
O
Lord thou pluckest
burning
IV.
Death by Water
Phlebas
the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot
the cry of gulls, the deep sea swell
And
the profit and loss.
A
current under sea
Picked
his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He
passed the stages of his age and youth,
Entering
the whirlpool.
Gentile
or Jew
O
you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider
Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
V.
What the Thunder Said
After
the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After
the frosty silence in the gardens
After
the agony in stony places
The
shouting and the crying
Prison
and palace and reverberation
Of
thunder of spring over distant mountains
He
who was living is now dead
We
who were living are now dying
With
a little patience
Here
is no water but only rock
Rock
and no water and the sandy road
The
road winding above among the mountains
Which
are mountains of rock without water
If
there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst
the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat
is dry and feet are in the sand
If
there were only water amongst the rock
Dead
mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here
one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There
is not even silence in the mountains
But
dry sterile thunder without rain
There
is not even solitude in the mountains
But
red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From
doors of mudcracked houses
If
there were water
And
no rock
If
there were rock
And
also water
And
water
A
spring
A
pool among the rock
If
there were the sound of water only
Not
the cicada
And
dry grass singing
But
sound of water over a rock
Where
the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip
drop drip drop drop drop drop
But
here there is no water
Who
is the third who walks always beside you?
When
I count, there are only you and I together
But
when I look ahead, up the white road
There
is always another one walking beside you,
Gliding
wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I
do not know whether a man or a woman
--But
who is that on the other side of you?
What
is that sound high in the air
Murmur
of maternal lamentation
Who
are those hooded hordes swarming
Over
endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed
by the flat horizon only
What
is the city over the mountains
Cracks
and reforms and bursts in violet air
Falling
towers
Jerusalem
Athens Alexandria
Vienna
London
Unreal
A
woman drew her long black hair out tight
And
fiddled whisper music on those strings
And
bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled,
and beat their wings
And
crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And
upside down in air were towers
Tolling
reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And
voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In
this decayed hole among the mountains,
In
the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over
the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There
is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It
has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry
bones can harm no one.
Only
a cock stood on the rooftree
Co
co rico co co rico
In
a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing
rain
Ganga
was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited
for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered
far distant, over Himavant.
The
jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then
spoke the thunder
DA
Datta:
what have we given?
My
friend, blood shaking my heart
The
awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which
an age of prudence can never retract,
By
this, and this only, we have existed,
Which
is not to be found in our obituaries
Or
in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or
under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In
our empty rooms
DA
Dayadhvam:
I have heard the key
Turn
in the door once and turn once only
We
think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking
of the key, each confirms his prison
Only
at nightfall, aethereal rumors
Revive
for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
Damyata:
the boat responded
Gaily,
to the hand expert with sail and oar
The
sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily,
when invited, beating obedient
To
controlling hands
I
sat upon the shore
Fishing,
with the arid plain behind me
Shall
I at least set my lands in order?
London
bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi
s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando
fiam uti chelidon--O swallow swallow
Le
prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie
These
fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why
then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Da.
Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih
shantih shantih
(The
Waste Land, 1922)
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