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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, by T. S. [Thomas Stearns] Eliot
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Poems
+
+Author: T. S. [Thomas Stearns] Eliot
+
+Release Date: December, 1998 [eBook #1567]
+[Most recently updated: November 22, 2021]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Bill Brewer and David Widger
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
+
+
+
+
+POEMS
+
+by T. S. ELIOT
+
+
+New York Alfred A. Knopf 1920
+
+
+             To Jean Verdenal 1889-1915
+
+
+Certain of these poems first appeared in Poetry, Blast, Others, The
+Little Review, and Art and Letters.
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+     Gerontion
+     Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar
+     Sweeney Erect
+     A Cooking Egg
+     Le Directeur
+     Mélange adultère de tout
+     Lune de Miel
+     The Hippopotamus
+     Dans le Restaurant
+     Whispers of Immortality
+     Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service
+     Sweeney Among the Nightingales
+     The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
+     Portrait of a Lady
+     Preludes
+     Rhapsody on a Windy Night
+     Morning at the Window
+     The Boston Evening Transcript
+     Aunt Helen
+     Cousin Nancy
+     Mr. Apollinax
+     Hysteria
+     Conversation Galante
+     La Figlia Che Pianga
+
+
+
+
+POEMS
+
+
+
+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; Fraulein 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 it 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,
+     White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
+     And an old man driven by the Trades
+     To a sleepy corner.
+
+                       Tenants of the house,
+     Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.
+
+
+
+
+Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar
+
+       Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire--nil nisi divinum stabile
+       est; caetera fumus--the gondola stopped, the old
+       palace was there, how charming its grey and pink--
+       goats and monkeys, with such hair too!--so the
+       countess passed on until she came through the
+       little park, where Niobe presented her with a
+       cabinet, and so departed.
+
+
+     Burbank crossed a little bridge
+     Descending at a small hotel;
+     Princess Volupine arrived,
+     They were together, and he fell.
+
+     Defunctive music under sea
+     Passed seaward with the passing bell
+     Slowly: the God Hercules
+     Had left him, that had loved him well.
+
+     The horses, under the axletree
+     Beat up the dawn from Istria
+     With even feet. Her shuttered barge
+     Burned on the water all the day.
+
+     But this or such was Bleistein's way:
+     A saggy bending of the knees
+     And elbows, with the palms turned out,
+     Chicago Semite Viennese.
+
+     A lustreless protrusive eye
+     Stares from the protozoic slime
+     At a perspective of Canaletto.
+     The smoky candle end of time
+
+     Declines. On the Rialto once.
+     The rats are underneath the piles.
+     The jew is underneath the lot.
+     Money in furs. The boatman smiles,
+
+     Princess Volupine extends
+     A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
+     To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
+     She entertains Sir Ferdinand
+
+     Klein. Who clipped the lion's wings
+     And flea'd his rump and pared his claws?
+     Thought Burbank, meditating on
+     Time's ruins, and the seven laws.
+
+
+
+
+Sweeney Erect
+
+                           And the trees about me,
+       Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
+       Groan with continual surges; and behind me
+       Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
+
+
+     Paint me a cavernous waste shore
+     Cast in the unstilted Cyclades,
+     Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
+     Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
+
+     Display me Aeolus above
+     Reviewing the insurgent gales
+     Which tangle Ariadne's hair
+     And swell with haste the perjured sails.
+
+     Morning stirs the feet and hands
+     (Nausicaa and Polypheme),
+     Gesture of orang-outang
+     Rises from the sheets in steam.
+
+     This withered root of knots of hair
+     Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
+     This oval O cropped out with teeth:
+     The sickle motion from the thighs
+
+     Jackknifes upward at the knees
+     Then straightens out from heel to hip
+     Pushing the framework of the bed
+     And clawing at the pillow slip.
+
+     Sweeney addressed full length to shave
+     Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
+     Knows the female temperament
+     And wipes the suds around his face.
+
+     (The lengthened shadow of a man
+     Is history, said Emerson
+     Who had not seen the silhouette
+     Of Sweeney straddled in the sun).
+
+     Tests the razor on his leg
+     Waiting until the shriek subsides.
+     The epileptic on the bed
+     Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
+
+     The ladies of the corridor
+     Find themselves involved, disgraced,
+     Call witness to their principles
+     And deprecate the lack of taste
+
+     Observing that hysteria
+     Might easily be misunderstood;
+     Mrs. Turner intimates
+     It does the house no sort of good.
+
+     But Doris, towelled from the bath,
+     Enters padding on broad feet,
+     Bringing sal volatile
+     And a glass of brandy neat.
+
+
+
+
+A Cooking Egg
+
+       En l'an trentiesme de mon aage
+       Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beues...
+
+
+     Pipit sate upright in her chair
+       Some distance from where I was sitting;
+     Views of the Oxford Colleges
+       Lay on the table, with the knitting.
+
+     Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
+       Her grandfather and great great aunts,
+     Supported on the mantelpiece
+       An Invitation to the Dance.
+      .    .    .    .    .    .
+     I shall not want Honour in Heaven
+       For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
+     And have talk with Coriolanus
+       And other heroes of that kidney.
+
+     I shall not want Capital in Heaven
+       For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond:
+     We two shall lie together, lapt
+       In a five per cent Exchequer Bond.
+
+     I shall not want Society in Heaven,
+       Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
+     Her anecdotes will be more amusing
+       Than Pipit's experience could provide.
+
+     I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
+       Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
+     In the Seven Sacred Trances;
+       Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.
+
+      .    .    .    .    .    .
+
+     But where is the penny world I bought
+       To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
+     The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
+       From Kentish Town and Golder's Green;
+
+     Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
+
+       Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
+     Over buttered scones and crumpets
+       Weeping, weeping multitudes
+     Droop in a hundred A.B.C.'s
+
+     ["ABC's" signifes endemic teashops, found in all parts of
+     London. The initials signify "Aerated Bread Company,
+     Limited."--Project Gutenberg Editor's replacement of
+     original footnote]
+
+
+
+
+Le Directeur
+
+     Malheur à la malheureuse Tamise!
+     Tamisel Qui coule si pres du Spectateur.
+     Le directeur
+     Conservateur
+     Du Spectateur
+     Empeste la brise.
+     Les actionnaires
+     Réactionnaires
+     Du Spectateur
+     Conservateur
+     Bras dessus bras dessous
+     Font des tours
+     A pas de loup.
+     Dans un égout
+     Une petite fille
+     En guenilles
+     Camarde
+     Regarde
+     Le directeur
+     Du Spectateur
+     Conservateur
+     Et crève d'amour.
+
+
+
+
+Mélange adultère de tout
+
+     En Amerique, professeur;
+     En Angleterre, journaliste;
+     C'est à grands pas et en sueur
+     Que vous suivrez à peine ma piste.
+     En Yorkshire, conferencier;
+     A Londres, un peu banquier,
+     Vous me paierez bien la tête.
+     C'est à Paris que je me coiffe
+     Casque noir de jemenfoutiste.
+     En Allemagne, philosophe
+     Surexcité par Emporheben
+     Au grand air de Bergsteigleben;
+     J'erre toujours de-ci de-là
+     A divers coups de tra la la
+     De Damas jusqu'à Omaha.
+     Je celebrai mon jour de fête
+     Dans une oasis d'Afrique
+     Vêtu d'une peau de girafe.
+
+     On montrera mon cénotaphe
+     Aux côtes brûlantes de Mozambique.
+
+
+
+
+Lune de Miel
+
+     Ils ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent à Terre Haute;
+     Mais une nuit d'été, les voici à Ravenne,
+     A l'sur le dos écartant les genoux
+     De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures.
+     On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner.
+     Moins d'une lieue d'ici est Saint Apollinaire
+     In Classe, basilique connue des amateurs
+     De chapitaux d'acanthe que touraoie le vent.
+
+     Ils vont prendre le train de huit heures
+     Prolonger leurs misères de Padoue à Milan
+     Ou se trouvent le Cène, et un restaurant pas cher.
+     Lui pense aux pourboires, et redige son bilan.
+     Ils auront vu la Suisse et traversé la France.
+     Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascétique,
+     Vieille usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore
+     Dans ses pierres ècroulantes la forme precise de Byzance.
+
+
+
+
+The Hippopotamus
+
+       Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut
+       mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum
+       Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros
+       autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem
+       Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de
+       quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
+
+       S. IGNATII AD TRALLIANOS.
+
+       And when this epistle is read among you, cause
+       that it be read also in the church of the
+       Laodiceans.
+
+
+     The broad-backed hippopotamus
+     Rests on his belly in the mud;
+     Although he seems so firm to us
+     He is merely flesh and blood.
+
+     Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
+     Susceptible to nervous shock;
+     While the True Church can never fail
+     For it is based upon a rock.
+
+     The hippo's feeble steps may err
+     In compassing material ends,
+     While the True Church need never stir
+     To gather in its dividends.
+
+     The 'potamus can never reach
+     The mango on the mango-tree;
+     But fruits of pomegranate and peach
+     Refresh the Church from over sea.
+
+     At mating time the hippo's voice
+     Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
+     But every week we hear rejoice
+     The Church, at being one with God.
+
+     The hippopotamus's day
+     Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
+     God works in a mysterious way-
+     The Church can sleep and feed at once.
+
+     I saw the 'potamus take wing
+     Ascending from the damp savannas,
+     And quiring angels round him sing
+     The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
+
+     Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
+     And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
+     Among the saints he shall be seen
+     Performing on a harp of gold.
+
+     He shall be washed as white as snow,
+     By all the martyr'd virgins kiss,
+     While the True Church remains below
+     Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
+
+
+
+
+Dans le Restaurant
+
+     Le garcon délabré qui n'a rien à faire
+     Que de se gratter les doigts et se pencher sur mon épaule:
+       "Dans mon pays il fera temps pluvieux,
+       Du vent, du grand soleil, et de la pluie;
+       C'est ce qu'on appelle le jour de lessive des gueux."
+     (Bavard, baveux, à la croupe arrondie,
+     Je te prie, au moins, ne bave pas dans la soupe).
+       "Les saules trempés, et des bourgeons sur les ronces--
+       C'est là, dans une averse, qu'on s'abrite.
+     J'avais septtans, elle était plus petite.
+       Elle etait toute mouillée, je lui ai donné des primavères."
+     Les tâches de son gilet montent au chiffre de trente-huit.
+       "Je la chatouillais, pour la faire rire.
+       J'éprouvais un instant de puissance et de délire."
+
+             Mais alors, vieux lubrique, a cet âge...
+       "Monsieur, le fait est dur.
+       Il est venu, nous peloter, un gros chien;
+       Moi j'avais peur, je l'ai quittee a mi-chemin.
+       C'est dommage."
+
+           Mais alors, tu as ton vautour!
+     Va t'en te décrotter les rides du visage;
+     Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne.
+     De quel droit payes-tu des expériences comme moi?
+     Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bains.
+
+     Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé,
+     Oubliait les cris des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille,
+     Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d'etain:
+     Un courant de sous-mer l'emporta tres loin,
+     Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure.
+     Figurez-vous donc, c'etait un sort penible;
+     Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille.
+
+
+
+
+Whispers of Immortality
+
+     Webster was much possessed by death
+     And saw the skull beneath the skin;
+     And breastless creatures under ground
+     Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
+
+     Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
+     Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
+     He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
+     Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
+
+     Donne, I suppose, was such another
+     Who found no substitute for sense;
+     To seize and clutch and penetrate,
+     Expert beyond experience,
+
+     He knew the anguish of the marrow
+     The ague of the skeleton;
+     No contact possible to flesh
+     Allayed the fever of the bone.
+
+    .    .    .    .    .
+
+     Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
+     Is underlined for emphasis;
+     Uncorseted, her friendly bust
+     Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
+
+     The couched Brazilian jaguar
+     Compels the scampering marmoset
+     With subtle effluence of cat;
+     Grishkin has a maisonette;
+
+     The sleek Brazilian jaguar
+     Does not in its arboreal gloom
+     Distil so rank a feline smell
+     As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
+
+     And even the Abstract Entities
+     Circumambulate her charm;
+     But our lot crawls between dry ribs
+     To keep our metaphysics warm.
+
+
+
+
+Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service
+
+       Look, look, master, here comes two religious
+       caterpillars.
+                     The Jew of Malta.
+
+
+     Polyphiloprogenitive
+     The sapient sutlers of the Lord
+     Drift across the window-panes.
+     In the beginning was the Word.
+
+     In the beginning was the Word.
+     Superfetation of [Greek text inserted here],
+     And at the mensual turn of time
+     Produced enervate Origen.
+
+     A painter of the Umbrian school
+     Designed upon a gesso ground
+     The nimbus of the Baptized God.
+     The wilderness is cracked and browned
+
+     But through the water pale and thin
+     Still shine the unoffending feet
+     And there above the painter set
+     The Father and the Paraclete.
+    .    .    .    .    .
+     The sable presbyters approach
+     The avenue of penitence;
+     The young are red and pustular
+     Clutching piaculative pence.
+
+     Under the penitential gates
+     Sustained by staring Seraphim
+     Where the souls of the devout
+     Burn invisible and dim.
+
+     Along the garden-wall the bees
+     With hairy bellies pass between
+     The staminate and pistilate,
+     Blest office of the epicene.
+
+     Sweeney shifts from ham to ham
+     Stirring the water in his bath.
+     The masters of the subtle schools
+     Are controversial, polymath.
+
+
+
+
+Sweeney Among the Nightingales
+
+       [Greek text inserted here]
+
+
+     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 hornèd 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,
+     Reorganized 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 figs 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, thought 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,
+     And let their liquid droppings fall
+     To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.
+
+
+
+
+The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
+
+       S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
+       A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
+       Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
+       Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
+       Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
+       Senza tema d'infamia 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 thin!")
+     My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
+     My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
+     (They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
+     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 a 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 some 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 toward 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 eat 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.
+
+
+
+
+Portrait of a Lady
+
+       Thou hast committed--
+       Fornication: but that was in another country
+       And besides, the wench is dead.
+       The Jew of Malta.
+
+
+     I
+
+     Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
+     You have the scene arrange itself--as it will seem to do--
+     With "I have saved this afternoon for you";
+     And four wax candles in the darkened room,
+     Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
+     An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb
+     Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
+     We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
+     Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.
+     "So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
+     Should be resurrected only among friends
+     Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
+     That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."
+     --And so the conversation slips
+     Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
+     Through attenuated tones of violins
+     Mingled with remote cornets
+     And begins.
+
+     "You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
+     And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
+     In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
+     (For indeed I do not love it... you knew? you are not blind!
+     How keen you are!)
+     To find a friend who has these qualities,
+     Who has, and gives
+     Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
+     How much it means that I say this to you--
+     Without these friendships--life, what cauchemar!"
+     Among the windings of the violins
+     And the ariettes
+     Of cracked cornets
+     Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
+     Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
+     Capricious monotone
+     That is at least one definite "false note."
+     --Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
+     Admire the monuments
+     Discuss the late events,
+     Correct our watches by the public clocks.
+     Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.
+
+     II
+
+     Now that lilacs are in bloom
+     She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
+     And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
+     "Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
+     What life is, you should hold it in your hands";
+     (Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
+     "You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
+     And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
+     And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
+     I smile, of course,
+     And go on drinking tea.
+     "Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
+     My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
+     I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
+     To be wonderful and youthful, after all."
+
+     The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
+     Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
+     "I am always sure that you understand
+     My feelings, always sure that you feel,
+     Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
+
+     You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.
+     You will go on, and when you have prevailed
+     You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
+
+     But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
+     To give you, what can you receive from me?
+     Only the friendship and the sympathy
+     Of one about to reach her journey's end.
+
+     I shall sit here, serving tea to friends...."
+
+     I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
+     For what she has said to me?
+     You will see me any morning in the park
+     Reading the comics and the sporting page.
+     Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage.
+     A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
+     Another bank defaulter has confessed.
+     I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed
+     Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
+     Reiterates some worn-out common song
+     With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
+     Recalling things that other people have desired.
+     Are these ideas right or wrong?
+
+     III
+
+     The October night comes down; returning as before
+     Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
+     I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
+     And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
+
+     "And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
+     But that's a useless question.
+     You hardly know when you are coming back,
+     You will find so much to learn."
+     My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.
+
+     "Perhaps you can write to me."
+     My self-possession flares up for a second;
+     This is as I had reckoned.
+
+     "I have been wondering frequently of late
+     (But our beginnings never know our ends!)
+     Why we have not developed into friends."
+     I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
+     Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
+     My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.
+
+     "For everybody said so, all our friends,
+     They all were sure our feelings would relate
+     So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
+     We must leave it now to fate.
+     You will write, at any rate.
+     Perhaps it is not too late.
+     I shall sit here, serving tea to friends."
+
+     And I must borrow every changing shape
+     To find expression... dance, dance
+     Like a dancing bear,
+     Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
+     Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance--
+     Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
+     Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
+     Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
+     With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
+     Doubtful, for quite a while
+     Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
+     Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...
+     Would she not have the advantage, after all?
+     This music is successful with a "dying fall"
+     Now that we talk of dying--
+     And should I have the right to smile?
+
+
+
+
+Preludes
+
+     I
+
+     The winter evening settles down
+     With smell of steaks in passageways.
+     Six o'clock.
+     The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
+     And now a gusty shower wraps
+     The grimy scraps
+     Of withered leaves about your feet
+     And newspapers from vacant lots;
+     The showers beat
+     On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
+     And at the corner of the street
+     A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
+     And then the lighting of the lamps.
+
+     II
+
+     The morning comes to consciousness
+     Of faint stale smells of beer
+     From the sawdust-trampled street
+     With all its muddy feet that press
+     To early coffee-stands.
+
+     With the other masquerades
+     That time resumes,
+     One thinks of all the hands
+     That are raising dingy shades
+     In a thousand furnished rooms.
+
+     III
+
+     You tossed a blanket from the bed,
+     You lay upon your back, and waited;
+     You dozed, and watched the night revealing
+     The thousand sordid images
+     Of which your soul was constituted;
+     They flickered against the ceiling.
+     And when all the world came back
+     And the light crept up between the shutters,
+     And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
+     You had such a vision of the street
+     As the street hardly understands;
+     Sitting along the bed's edge, where
+     You curled the papers from your hair,
+     Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
+     In the palms of both soiled hands.
+
+     IV
+
+     His soul stretched tight across the skies
+     That fade behind a city block,
+     Or trampled by insistent feet
+     At four and five and six o'clock;
+     And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
+     And evening newspapers, and eyes
+     Assured of certain certainties,
+     The conscience of a blackened street
+     Impatient to assume the world.
+
+     I am moved by fancies that are curled
+     Around these images, and cling:
+     The notion of some infinitely gentle
+     Infinitely suffering thing.
+
+     Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
+     The worlds revolve like ancient women
+     Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
+
+
+
+
+Rhapsody on a Windy Night
+
+     Twelve o'clock.
+     Along the reaches of the street
+     Held in a lunar synthesis,
+     Whispering lunar incantations
+     Disolve the floors of memory
+     And all its clear relations,
+     Its divisions and precisions,
+     Every street lamp that I pass
+     Beats like a fatalistic drum,
+     And through the spaces of the dark
+     Midnight shakes the memory
+     As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
+
+     Half-past one,
+     The street lamp sputtered,
+     The street lamp muttered,
+     The street lamp said,
+     "Regard that woman
+     Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
+     Which opens on her like a grin.
+     You see the border of her dress
+     Is torn and stained with sand,
+     And you see the corner of her eye
+     Twists like a crooked pin."
+
+     The memory throws up high and dry
+     A crowd of twisted things;
+     A twisted branch upon the beach
+     Eaten smooth, and polished
+     As if the world gave up
+     The secret of its skeleton,
+     Stiff and white.
+     A broken spring in a factory yard,
+     Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
+     Hard and curled and ready to snap.
+
+     Half-past two,
+     The street-lamp said,
+     "Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
+     Slips out its tongue
+     And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
+     So the hand of the child, automatic,
+     Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along
+     the quay.
+     I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
+     I have seen eyes in the street
+     Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
+     And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
+     An old crab with barnacles on his back,
+     Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
+
+     Half-past three,
+     The lamp sputtered,
+     The lamp muttered in the dark.
+
+     The lamp hummed:
+     "Regard the moon,
+     La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
+     She winks a feeble eye,
+     She smiles into corners.
+     She smooths the hair of the grass.
+     The moon has lost her memory.
+     A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
+     Her hand twists a paper rose,
+     That smells of dust and old Cologne,
+     She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells
+     That cross and cross across her brain.
+     The reminiscence comes
+     Of sunless dry geraniums
+     And dust in crevices,
+     Smells of chestnuts in the streets
+     And female smells in shuttered rooms
+     And cigarettes in corridors
+     And cocktail smells in bars."
+
+     The lamp said,
+     "Four o'clock,
+     Here is the number on the door.
+     Memory!
+     You have the key,
+     The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
+     Mount.
+     The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
+     Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
+
+     The last twist of the knife.
+
+
+
+
+Morning at the Window
+
+     They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
+     And along the trampled edges of the street
+     I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
+     Sprouting despondently at area gates.
+     The brown waves of fog toss up to me
+     Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
+     And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
+     An aimless smile that hovers in the air
+     And vanishes along the level of the roofs.
+
+
+
+
+The Boston Evening Transcript
+
+     The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
+     Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
+     When evening quickens faintly in the street,
+     Wakening the appetites of life in some
+     And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
+     I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
+     Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
+     If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
+     And I say, "Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript."
+
+
+
+
+Aunt Helen
+
+     Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,
+     And lived in a small house near a fashionable square
+     Cared for by servants to the number of four.
+     Now when she died there was silence in heaven
+     And silence at her end of the street.
+     The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet--
+     He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.
+     The dogs were handsomely provided for,
+     But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
+     The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
+     And the footman sat upon the dining-table
+     Holding the second housemaid on his knees--
+     Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.
+
+
+
+
+Cousin Nancy
+
+     Miss Nancy Ellicott Strode across the hills and broke them,
+     Rode across the hills and broke them--
+     The barren New England hills--
+     Riding to hounds
+     Over the cow-pasture.
+
+     Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked
+     And danced all the modern dances;
+     And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it,
+     But they knew that it was modern.
+
+     Upon the glazen shelves kept watch
+     Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,
+     The army of unalterable law.
+
+
+
+
+Mr. Apollinax
+
+     When Mr. Apollinax visited the United States
+     His laughter tinkled among the teacups.
+     I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees,
+     And of Priapus in the shrubbery
+     Gaping at the lady in the swing.
+     In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah's
+     He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
+     HWith your aid indiffeis laughter was submarine and profound
+     Like the old man of the sea's
+     Hidden under coral islands
+     Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,
+     Dropping from fingers of surf.
+     I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair
+     Or grinning over a screen
+     With seaweed in its hair.
+     I heard the beat of centaur's hoofs over the hard turf
+     As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.
+     "He is a charming man"--"But after all what did he mean?"--
+     "His pointed ears... He must be unbalanced,"--
+     "There was something he said that I might have challenged."
+     Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah
+     I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten macaroon.
+
+
+
+
+Hysteria
+
+     As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her
+     laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were
+     only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I
+     was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary
+     recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her
+     throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An
+     elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly
+     spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
+     green iron table, saying: "If the lady and gentleman
+     wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and
+     gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden..." I
+     decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be
+     stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might
+     be collected, and I concentrated my attention with
+     careful subtlety to this end.
+
+
+
+
+Conversation Galante
+
+     I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon!
+     Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
+     It may be Prester John's balloon
+     Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
+     To light poor travellers to their distress."
+       She then: "How you digress!"
+
+     And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys
+     That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
+     The night and moonshine; music which we seize
+     To body forth our vacuity."
+       She then: "Does this refer to me?"
+       "Oh no, it is I who am inane."
+
+     "You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
+     The eternal enemy of the absolute,
+     Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
+     With your air indifferent and imperious
+     At a stroke our mad poetics to confute--"
+       And--"Are we then so serious?"
+
+
+
+
+La Figlia Che Piange
+
+       O quam te memorem Virgo...
+
+
+     Stand on the highest pavement of the stair--
+     Lean on a garden urn--
+     Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair--
+     Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise--
+     Fling them to the ground and turn
+     With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
+     But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
+
+     So I would have had him leave,
+     So I would have had her stand and grieve,
+     So he would have left
+     As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
+     As the mind deserts the body it has used.
+     I should find
+     Some way incomparably light and deft,
+     Some way we both should understand,
+     Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
+
+     She turned away, but with the autumn weather
+     Compelled my imagination many days,
+     Many days and many hours:
+     Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
+     And I wonder how they should have been together!
+     I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
+     Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
+     The troubled midnight and the noon's repose.
+
+
+
+
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+<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en">
+<head>
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" />
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" />
+<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, by T. S. Eliot</title>
+
+<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
+    
+    body { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify;}
+    p { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
+    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
+    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
+    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
+    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}
+    
+</style>
+  </head>
+  <body>
+
+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, by T. S. [Thomas Stearns] Eliot</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
+at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Poems</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: T. S. [Thomas Stearns] Eliot</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December, 1998 [eBook #1567]<br />
+[Most recently updated: November 22, 2021]</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Bill Brewer and David Widger</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***</div>
+
+    <h1>
+      POEMS
+    </h1>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      by T. S. ELIOT
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      New York Alfred A. Knopf 1920
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <br /><br />
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      To Jean Verdenal 1889-1915
+    </h4>
+    <h5>
+      Certain of these poems first appeared in Poetry, Blast,<br /> Others, The
+      Little Review, and Art and Letters.
+    </h5>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+
+      <p class="toc">
+        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> POEMS </a> <br /><br /><br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#linkgerontion"> Gerontion </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a
+        Cigar </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Sweeney Erect </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> A Cooking Egg </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Le Directeur </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> Mélange adultère de tout </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> Lune de Miel </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> The Hippopotamus </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Dans le Restaurant </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Whispers of Immortality </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Sweeney Among the Nightingales </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Portrait of a Lady </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Preludes </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Rhapsody on a Windy Night </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> Morning at the Window </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> The Boston Evening Transcript </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Aunt Helen </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> Cousin Nancy </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> Mr. Apollinax </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Hysteria </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Conversation Galante </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> La Figlia Che Piange </a>
+      </p>
+
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      POEMS
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br /> <a name="linkgerontion" id="linkgerontion"></a> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      Gerontion
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+       Thou hast nor youth nor age
+       But as it were an after dinner sleep
+       Dreaming of both.
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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; Fraulein 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 it 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,
+     White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
+     And an old man driven by the Trades
+     To a sleepy corner.
+
+                       Tenants of the house,
+     Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+       Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire&mdash;nil nisi divinum stabile
+       est; caetera fumus&mdash;the gondola stopped, the old
+       palace was there, how charming its grey and pink&mdash;
+       goats and monkeys, with such hair too!&mdash;so the
+       countess passed on until she came through the
+       little park, where Niobe presented her with a
+       cabinet, and so departed.
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Burbank crossed a little bridge
+     Descending at a small hotel;
+     Princess Volupine arrived,
+     They were together, and he fell.
+
+     Defunctive music under sea
+     Passed seaward with the passing bell
+     Slowly: the God Hercules
+     Had left him, that had loved him well.
+
+     The horses, under the axletree
+     Beat up the dawn from Istria
+     With even feet. Her shuttered barge
+     Burned on the water all the day.
+
+     But this or such was Bleistein's way:
+     A saggy bending of the knees
+     And elbows, with the palms turned out,
+     Chicago Semite Viennese.
+
+     A lustreless protrusive eye
+     Stares from the protozoic slime
+     At a perspective of Canaletto.
+     The smoky candle end of time
+
+     Declines. On the Rialto once.
+     The rats are underneath the piles.
+     The jew is underneath the lot.
+     Money in furs. The boatman smiles,
+
+     Princess Volupine extends
+     A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
+     To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
+     She entertains Sir Ferdinand
+
+     Klein. Who clipped the lion's wings
+     And flea'd his rump and pared his claws?
+     Thought Burbank, meditating on
+     Time's ruins, and the seven laws.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Sweeney Erect
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+                           And the trees about me,
+       Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
+       Groan with continual surges; and behind me
+       Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Paint me a cavernous waste shore
+     Cast in the unstilted Cyclades,
+     Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
+     Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
+
+     Display me Aeolus above
+     Reviewing the insurgent gales
+     Which tangle Ariadne's hair
+     And swell with haste the perjured sails.
+
+     Morning stirs the feet and hands
+     (Nausicaa and Polypheme),
+     Gesture of orang-outang
+     Rises from the sheets in steam.
+
+     This withered root of knots of hair
+     Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
+     This oval O cropped out with teeth:
+     The sickle motion from the thighs
+
+     Jackknifes upward at the knees
+     Then straightens out from heel to hip
+     Pushing the framework of the bed
+     And clawing at the pillow slip.
+
+     Sweeney addressed full length to shave
+     Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
+     Knows the female temperament
+     And wipes the suds around his face.
+
+     (The lengthened shadow of a man
+     Is history, said Emerson
+     Who had not seen the silhouette
+     Of Sweeney straddled in the sun).
+
+     Tests the razor on his leg
+     Waiting until the shriek subsides.
+     The epileptic on the bed
+     Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
+
+     The ladies of the corridor
+     Find themselves involved, disgraced,
+     Call witness to their principles
+     And deprecate the lack of taste
+
+     Observing that hysteria
+     Might easily be misunderstood;
+     Mrs. Turner intimates
+     It does the house no sort of good.
+
+     But Doris, towelled from the bath,
+     Enters padding on broad feet,
+     Bringing sal volatile
+     And a glass of brandy neat.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A Cooking Egg
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+       En l'an trentiesme de mon aage
+       Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beues...
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Pipit sate upright in her chair
+       Some distance from where I was sitting;
+     Views of the Oxford Colleges
+       Lay on the table, with the knitting.
+
+     Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
+       Her grandfather and great great aunts,
+     Supported on the mantelpiece
+       An Invitation to the Dance.
+      .    .    .    .    .    .
+     I shall not want Honour in Heaven
+       For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
+     And have talk with Coriolanus
+       And other heroes of that kidney.
+
+     I shall not want Capital in Heaven
+       For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond:
+     We two shall lie together, lapt
+       In a five per cent Exchequer Bond.
+
+     I shall not want Society in Heaven,
+       Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
+     Her anecdotes will be more amusing
+       Than Pipit's experience could provide.
+
+     I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
+       Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
+     In the Seven Sacred Trances;
+       Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.
+
+      .    .    .    .    .    .
+
+     But where is the penny world I bought
+       To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
+     The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
+       From Kentish Town and Golder's Green;
+
+     Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
+
+       Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
+     Over buttered scones and crumpets
+       Weeping, weeping multitudes
+     Droop in a hundred A.B.C.'s
+
+     ["ABC's" signifes endemic teashops, found in all parts of
+     London. The initials signify "Aerated Bread Company,
+     Limited."&mdash;Project Gutenberg Editor's replacement of
+     original footnote]
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Le Directeur
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Malheur à la malheureuse Tamise!
+     Tamisel Qui coule si pres du Spectateur.
+     Le directeur
+     Conservateur
+     Du Spectateur
+     Empeste la brise.
+     Les actionnaires
+     Réactionnaires
+     Du Spectateur
+     Conservateur
+     Bras dessus bras dessous
+     Font des tours
+     A pas de loup.
+     Dans un égout
+     Une petite fille
+     En guenilles
+     Camarde
+     Regarde
+     Le directeur
+     Du Spectateur
+     Conservateur
+     Et crève d'amour.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Mélange adultère de tout
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     En Amerique, professeur;
+     En Angleterre, journaliste;
+     C'est à grands pas et en sueur
+     Que vous suivrez à peine ma piste.
+     En Yorkshire, conferencier;
+     A Londres, un peu banquier,
+     Vous me paierez bien la tête.
+     C'est à Paris que je me coiffe
+     Casque noir de jemenfoutiste.
+     En Allemagne, philosophe
+     Surexcité par Emporheben
+     Au grand air de Bergsteigleben;
+     J'erre toujours de-ci de-là
+     A divers coups de tra la la
+     De Damas jusqu'à Omaha.
+     Je celebrai mon jour de fête
+     Dans une oasis d'Afrique
+     Vêtu d'une peau de girafe.
+
+     On montrera mon cénotaphe
+     Aux côtes brûlantes de Mozambique.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Lune de Miel
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Ils ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent à Terre Haute;
+     Mais une nuit d'été, les voici à Ravenne,
+     A l'sur le dos écartant les genoux
+     De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures.
+     On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner.
+     Moins d'une lieue d'ici est Saint Apollinaire
+     In Classe, basilique connue des amateurs
+     De chapitaux d'acanthe que touraoie le vent.
+
+     Ils vont prendre le train de huit heures
+     Prolonger leurs misères de Padoue à Milan
+     Ou se trouvent le Cène, et un restaurant pas cher.
+     Lui pense aux pourboires, et redige son bilan.
+     Ils auront vu la Suisse et traversé la France.
+     Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascétique,
+     Vieille usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore
+     Dans ses pierres ècroulantes la forme precise de Byzance.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      The Hippopotamus
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+       Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut
+       mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum
+       Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros
+       autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem
+       Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de
+       quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
+
+       S. IGNATII AD TRALLIANOS.
+
+       And when this epistle is read among you, cause
+       that it be read also in the church of the
+       Laodiceans.
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     The broad-backed hippopotamus
+     Rests on his belly in the mud;
+     Although he seems so firm to us
+     He is merely flesh and blood.
+
+     Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
+     Susceptible to nervous shock;
+     While the True Church can never fail
+     For it is based upon a rock.
+
+     The hippo's feeble steps may err
+     In compassing material ends,
+     While the True Church need never stir
+     To gather in its dividends.
+
+     The 'potamus can never reach
+     The mango on the mango-tree;
+     But fruits of pomegranate and peach
+     Refresh the Church from over sea.
+
+     At mating time the hippo's voice
+     Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
+     But every week we hear rejoice
+     The Church, at being one with God.
+
+     The hippopotamus's day
+     Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
+     God works in a mysterious way-
+     The Church can sleep and feed at once.
+
+     I saw the 'potamus take wing
+     Ascending from the damp savannas,
+     And quiring angels round him sing
+     The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
+
+     Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
+     And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
+     Among the saints he shall be seen
+     Performing on a harp of gold.
+
+     He shall be washed as white as snow,
+     By all the martyr'd virgins kiss,
+     While the True Church remains below
+     Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Dans le Restaurant
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Le garcon délabré qui n'a rien à faire
+     Que de se gratter les doigts et se pencher sur mon épaule:
+       "Dans mon pays il fera temps pluvieux,
+       Du vent, du grand soleil, et de la pluie;
+       C'est ce qu'on appelle le jour de lessive des gueux."
+     (Bavard, baveux, à la croupe arrondie,
+     Je te prie, au moins, ne bave pas dans la soupe).
+       "Les saules trempés, et des bourgeons sur les ronces&mdash;
+       C'est là, dans une averse, qu'on s'abrite.
+     J'avais septtans, elle était plus petite.
+       Elle etait toute mouillée, je lui ai donné des primavères."
+     Les tâches de son gilet montent au chiffre de trente-huit.
+       "Je la chatouillais, pour la faire rire.
+       J'éprouvais un instant de puissance et de délire."
+
+             Mais alors, vieux lubrique, a cet âge...
+       "Monsieur, le fait est dur.
+       Il est venu, nous peloter, un gros chien;
+       Moi j'avais peur, je l'ai quittee a mi-chemin.
+       C'est dommage."
+
+           Mais alors, tu as ton vautour!
+     Va t'en te décrotter les rides du visage;
+     Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne.
+     De quel droit payes-tu des expériences comme moi?
+     Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bains.
+
+     Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé,
+     Oubliait les cris des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille,
+     Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d'etain:
+     Un courant de sous-mer l'emporta tres loin,
+     Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure.
+     Figurez-vous donc, c'etait un sort penible;
+     Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Whispers of Immortality
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Webster was much possessed by death
+     And saw the skull beneath the skin;
+     And breastless creatures under ground
+     Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
+
+     Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
+     Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
+     He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
+     Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
+
+     Donne, I suppose, was such another
+     Who found no substitute for sense;
+     To seize and clutch and penetrate,
+     Expert beyond experience,
+
+     He knew the anguish of the marrow
+     The ague of the skeleton;
+     No contact possible to flesh
+     Allayed the fever of the bone.
+    .    .    .    .    .
+     Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
+     Is underlined for emphasis;
+     Uncorseted, her friendly bust
+     Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
+
+     The couched Brazilian jaguar
+     Compels the scampering marmoset
+     With subtle effluence of cat;
+     Grishkin has a maisonette;
+
+     The sleek Brazilian jaguar
+     Does not in its arboreal gloom
+     Distil so rank a feline smell
+     As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
+
+     And even the Abstract Entities
+     Circumambulate her charm;
+     But our lot crawls between dry ribs
+     To keep our metaphysics warm.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+       Look, look, master, here comes two religious
+       caterpillars.
+                     The Jew of Malta.
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Polyphiloprogenitive
+     The sapient sutlers of the Lord
+     Drift across the window-panes.
+     In the beginning was the Word.
+
+     In the beginning was the Word.
+     Superfetation of [Greek text inserted here],
+     And at the mensual turn of time
+     Produced enervate Origen.
+
+     A painter of the Umbrian school
+     Designed upon a gesso ground
+     The nimbus of the Baptized God.
+     The wilderness is cracked and browned
+
+     But through the water pale and thin
+     Still shine the unoffending feet
+     And there above the painter set
+     The Father and the Paraclete.
+    .    .    .    .    .
+     The sable presbyters approach
+     The avenue of penitence;
+     The young are red and pustular
+     Clutching piaculative pence.
+
+     Under the penitential gates
+     Sustained by staring Seraphim
+     Where the souls of the devout
+     Burn invisible and dim.
+
+     Along the garden-wall the bees
+     With hairy bellies pass between
+     The staminate and pistilate,
+     Blest office of the epicene.
+
+     Sweeney shifts from ham to ham
+     Stirring the water in his bath.
+     The masters of the subtle schools
+     Are controversial, polymath.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Sweeney Among the Nightingales
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+       [Greek text inserted here]
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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 hornèd 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,
+     Reorganized 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 figs 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, thought 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,
+     And let their liquid droppings fall
+     To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+       S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
+       A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
+       Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
+       Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
+       Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
+       Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     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&mdash;
+     (They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
+     My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
+     My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin&mdash;
+     (They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
+     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 a dying fall
+     Beneath the music from a farther room.
+       So how should I presume?
+
+     And I have known the eyes already, known them all&mdash;
+     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&mdash;
+     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&mdash;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 some 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 toward some overwhelming question,
+     To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
+     Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"&mdash;
+     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&mdash;
+     And this, and so much more?&mdash;
+     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&mdash;
+     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 eat 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.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Portrait of a Lady
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+       Thou hast committed&mdash;
+       Fornication: but that was in another country
+       And besides, the wench is dead.
+       The Jew of Malta.
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I
+
+     Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
+     You have the scene arrange itself&mdash;as it will seem to do&mdash;
+     With "I have saved this afternoon for you";
+     And four wax candles in the darkened room,
+     Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
+     An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb
+     Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
+     We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
+     Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.
+     "So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
+     Should be resurrected only among friends
+     Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
+     That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."
+     &mdash;And so the conversation slips
+     Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
+     Through attenuated tones of violins
+     Mingled with remote cornets
+     And begins.
+
+     "You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
+     And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
+     In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
+     (For indeed I do not love it... you knew? you are not blind!
+     How keen you are!)
+     To find a friend who has these qualities,
+     Who has, and gives
+     Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
+     How much it means that I say this to you&mdash;
+     Without these friendships&mdash;life, what cauchemar!"
+     Among the windings of the violins
+     And the ariettes
+     Of cracked cornets
+     Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
+     Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
+     Capricious monotone
+     That is at least one definite "false note."
+     &mdash;Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
+     Admire the monuments
+     Discuss the late events,
+     Correct our watches by the public clocks.
+     Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.
+
+     II
+
+     Now that lilacs are in bloom
+     She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
+     And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
+     "Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
+     What life is, you should hold it in your hands";
+     (Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
+     "You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
+     And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
+     And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
+     I smile, of course,
+     And go on drinking tea.
+     "Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
+     My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
+     I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
+     To be wonderful and youthful, after all."
+
+     The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
+     Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
+     "I am always sure that you understand
+     My feelings, always sure that you feel,
+     Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
+
+     You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.
+     You will go on, and when you have prevailed
+     You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
+
+     But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
+     To give you, what can you receive from me?
+     Only the friendship and the sympathy
+     Of one about to reach her journey's end.
+
+     I shall sit here, serving tea to friends...."
+
+     I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
+     For what she has said to me?
+     You will see me any morning in the park
+     Reading the comics and the sporting page.
+     Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage.
+     A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
+     Another bank defaulter has confessed.
+     I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed
+     Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
+     Reiterates some worn-out common song
+     With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
+     Recalling things that other people have desired.
+     Are these ideas right or wrong?
+
+     III
+
+     The October night comes down; returning as before
+     Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
+     I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
+     And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
+
+     "And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
+     But that's a useless question.
+     You hardly know when you are coming back,
+     You will find so much to learn."
+     My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.
+
+     "Perhaps you can write to me."
+     My self-possession flares up for a second;
+     This is as I had reckoned.
+
+     "I have been wondering frequently of late
+     (But our beginnings never know our ends!)
+     Why we have not developed into friends."
+     I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
+     Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
+     My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.
+
+     "For everybody said so, all our friends,
+     They all were sure our feelings would relate
+     So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
+     We must leave it now to fate.
+     You will write, at any rate.
+     Perhaps it is not too late.
+     I shall sit here, serving tea to friends."
+
+     And I must borrow every changing shape
+     To find expression... dance, dance
+     Like a dancing bear,
+     Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
+     Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance&mdash;
+     Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
+     Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
+     Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
+     With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
+     Doubtful, for quite a while
+     Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
+     Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...
+     Would she not have the advantage, after all?
+     This music is successful with a "dying fall"
+     Now that we talk of dying&mdash;
+     And should I have the right to smile?
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Preludes
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I
+
+     The winter evening settles down
+     With smell of steaks in passageways.
+     Six o'clock.
+     The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
+     And now a gusty shower wraps
+     The grimy scraps
+     Of withered leaves about your feet
+     And newspapers from vacant lots;
+     The showers beat
+     On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
+     And at the corner of the street
+     A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
+     And then the lighting of the lamps.
+
+     II
+
+     The morning comes to consciousness
+     Of faint stale smells of beer
+     From the sawdust-trampled street
+     With all its muddy feet that press
+     To early coffee-stands.
+
+     With the other masquerades
+     That time resumes,
+     One thinks of all the hands
+     That are raising dingy shades
+     In a thousand furnished rooms.
+
+     III
+
+     You tossed a blanket from the bed,
+     You lay upon your back, and waited;
+     You dozed, and watched the night revealing
+     The thousand sordid images
+     Of which your soul was constituted;
+     They flickered against the ceiling.
+     And when all the world came back
+     And the light crept up between the shutters,
+     And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
+     You had such a vision of the street
+     As the street hardly understands;
+     Sitting along the bed's edge, where
+     You curled the papers from your hair,
+     Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
+     In the palms of both soiled hands.
+
+     IV
+
+     His soul stretched tight across the skies
+     That fade behind a city block,
+     Or trampled by insistent feet
+     At four and five and six o'clock;
+     And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
+     And evening newspapers, and eyes
+     Assured of certain certainties,
+     The conscience of a blackened street
+     Impatient to assume the world.
+
+     I am moved by fancies that are curled
+     Around these images, and cling:
+     The notion of some infinitely gentle
+     Infinitely suffering thing.
+
+     Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
+     The worlds revolve like ancient women
+     Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Rhapsody on a Windy Night
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Twelve o'clock.
+     Along the reaches of the street
+     Held in a lunar synthesis,
+     Whispering lunar incantations
+     Disolve the floors of memory
+     And all its clear relations,
+     Its divisions and precisions,
+     Every street lamp that I pass
+     Beats like a fatalistic drum,
+     And through the spaces of the dark
+     Midnight shakes the memory
+     As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
+
+     Half-past one,
+     The street lamp sputtered,
+     The street lamp muttered,
+     The street lamp said,
+     "Regard that woman
+     Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
+     Which opens on her like a grin.
+     You see the border of her dress
+     Is torn and stained with sand,
+     And you see the corner of her eye
+     Twists like a crooked pin."
+
+     The memory throws up high and dry
+     A crowd of twisted things;
+     A twisted branch upon the beach
+     Eaten smooth, and polished
+     As if the world gave up
+     The secret of its skeleton,
+     Stiff and white.
+     A broken spring in a factory yard,
+     Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
+     Hard and curled and ready to snap.
+
+     Half-past two,
+     The street-lamp said,
+     "Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
+     Slips out its tongue
+     And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
+     So the hand of the child, automatic,
+     Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along
+     the quay.
+     I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
+     I have seen eyes in the street
+     Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
+     And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
+     An old crab with barnacles on his back,
+     Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
+
+     Half-past three,
+     The lamp sputtered,
+     The lamp muttered in the dark.
+
+     The lamp hummed:
+     "Regard the moon,
+     La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
+     She winks a feeble eye,
+     She smiles into corners.
+     She smooths the hair of the grass.
+     The moon has lost her memory.
+     A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
+     Her hand twists a paper rose,
+     That smells of dust and old Cologne,
+     She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells
+     That cross and cross across her brain.
+     The reminiscence comes
+     Of sunless dry geraniums
+     And dust in crevices,
+     Smells of chestnuts in the streets
+     And female smells in shuttered rooms
+     And cigarettes in corridors
+     And cocktail smells in bars."
+
+     The lamp said,
+     "Four o'clock,
+     Here is the number on the door.
+     Memory!
+     You have the key,
+     The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
+     Mount.
+     The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
+     Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
+
+     The last twist of the knife.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Morning at the Window
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
+     And along the trampled edges of the street
+     I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
+     Sprouting despondently at area gates.
+     The brown waves of fog toss up to me
+     Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
+     And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
+     An aimless smile that hovers in the air
+     And vanishes along the level of the roofs.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      The Boston Evening Transcript
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
+     Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
+     When evening quickens faintly in the street,
+     Wakening the appetites of life in some
+     And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
+     I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
+     Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
+     If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
+     And I say, "Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript."
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Aunt Helen
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,
+     And lived in a small house near a fashionable square
+     Cared for by servants to the number of four.
+     Now when she died there was silence in heaven
+     And silence at her end of the street.
+     The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet&mdash;
+     He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.
+     The dogs were handsomely provided for,
+     But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
+     The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
+     And the footman sat upon the dining-table
+     Holding the second housemaid on his knees&mdash;
+     Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Cousin Nancy
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Miss Nancy Ellicott Strode across the hills and broke them,
+     Rode across the hills and broke them&mdash;
+     The barren New England hills&mdash;
+     Riding to hounds
+     Over the cow-pasture.
+
+     Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked
+     And danced all the modern dances;
+     And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it,
+     But they knew that it was modern.
+
+     Upon the glazen shelves kept watch
+     Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,
+     The army of unalterable law.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Mr. Apollinax
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     When Mr. Apollinax visited the United States
+     His laughter tinkled among the teacups.
+     I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees,
+     And of Priapus in the shrubbery
+     Gaping at the lady in the swing.
+     In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah's
+     He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
+     His laughter was submarine and profound
+     Like the old man of the sea's
+     Hidden under coral islands
+     Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,
+     Dropping from fingers of surf.
+     I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair
+     Or grinning over a screen
+     With seaweed in its hair.
+     I heard the beat of centaur's hoofs over the hard turf
+     As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.
+     "He is a charming man"&mdash;"But after all what did he mean?"&mdash;
+     "His pointed ears... He must be unbalanced,"&mdash;
+     "There was something he said that I might have challenged."
+     Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah
+     I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten macaroon.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Hysteria
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her
+     laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were
+     only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I
+     was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary
+     recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her
+     throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An
+     elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly
+     spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
+     green iron table, saying: "If the lady and gentleman
+     wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and
+     gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden..." I
+     decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be
+     stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might
+     be collected, and I concentrated my attention with
+     careful subtlety to this end.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      Conversation Galante
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon!
+     Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
+     It may be Prester John's balloon
+     Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
+     To light poor travellers to their distress."
+       She then: "How you digress!"
+
+     And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys
+     That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
+     The night and moonshine; music which we seize
+     To body forth our vacuity."
+       She then: "Does this refer to me?"
+       "Oh no, it is I who am inane."
+
+     "You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
+     The eternal enemy of the absolute,
+     Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
+     With your air indifferent and imperious
+     At a stroke our mad poetics to confute&mdash;"
+       And&mdash;"Are we then so serious?"
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      La Figlia Che Piange
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+       O quam te memorem Virgo...
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Stand on the highest pavement of the stair&mdash;
+     Lean on a garden urn&mdash;
+     Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair&mdash;
+     Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise&mdash;
+     Fling them to the ground and turn
+     With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
+     But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
+
+     So I would have had him leave,
+     So I would have had her stand and grieve,
+     So he would have left
+     As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
+     As the mind deserts the body it has used.
+     I should find
+     Some way incomparably light and deft,
+     Some way we both should understand,
+     Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
+
+     She turned away, but with the autumn weather
+     Compelled my imagination many days,
+     Many days and many hours:
+     Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
+     And I wonder how they should have been together!
+     I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
+     Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
+     The troubled midnight and the noon's repose.
+</pre>
+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #1567 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1567)
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by T. S. [Thomas Stearns] Eliot
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Poems
+
+Author: T. S. [Thomas Stearns] Eliot
+
+Posting Date: September 17, 2008 [EBook #1567]
+Release Date: December, 1998
+[Last updated: December 24, 2012]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Bill Brewer
+
+
+
+
+
+POEMS
+
+by T. S. ELIOT
+
+
+New York Alfred A. Knopf 1920
+
+
+             To Jean Verdenal 1889-1915
+
+
+Certain of these poems first appeared in Poetry, Blast, Others, The
+Little Review, and Art and Letters.
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+     Gerontion
+     Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar
+     Sweeney Erect
+     A Cooking Egg
+     Le Directeur
+     Mélange adultère de tout
+     Lune de Miel
+     The Hippopotamus
+     Dans le Restaurant
+     Whispers of Immortality
+     Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service
+     Sweeney Among the Nightingales
+     The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
+     Portrait of a Lady
+     Preludes
+     Rhapsody on a Windy Night
+     Morning at the Window
+     The Boston Evening Transcript
+     Aunt Helen
+     Cousin Nancy
+     Mr. Apollinax
+     Hysteria
+     Conversation Galante
+     La Figlia Che Pianga
+
+
+
+
+POEMS
+
+
+
+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; Fraulein 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 it 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,
+     White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
+     And an old man driven by the Trades
+     To a sleepy corner.
+
+                       Tenants of the house,
+     Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.
+
+
+
+
+Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar
+
+       Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire--nil nisi divinum stabile
+       est; caetera fumus--the gondola stopped, the old
+       palace was there, how charming its grey and pink--
+       goats and monkeys, with such hair too!--so the
+       countess passed on until she came through the
+       little park, where Niobe presented her with a
+       cabinet, and so departed.
+
+
+     Burbank crossed a little bridge
+     Descending at a small hotel;
+     Princess Volupine arrived,
+     They were together, and he fell.
+
+     Defunctive music under sea
+     Passed seaward with the passing bell
+     Slowly: the God Hercules
+     Had left him, that had loved him well.
+
+     The horses, under the axletree
+     Beat up the dawn from Istria
+     With even feet. Her shuttered barge
+     Burned on the water all the day.
+
+     But this or such was Bleistein's way:
+     A saggy bending of the knees
+     And elbows, with the palms turned out,
+     Chicago Semite Viennese.
+
+     A lustreless protrusive eye
+     Stares from the protozoic slime
+     At a perspective of Canaletto.
+     The smoky candle end of time
+
+     Declines. On the Rialto once.
+     The rats are underneath the piles.
+     The jew is underneath the lot.
+     Money in furs. The boatman smiles,
+
+     Princess Volupine extends
+     A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
+     To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
+     She entertains Sir Ferdinand
+
+     Klein. Who clipped the lion's wings
+     And flea'd his rump and pared his claws?
+     Thought Burbank, meditating on
+     Time's ruins, and the seven laws.
+
+
+
+
+Sweeney Erect
+
+                           And the trees about me,
+       Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
+       Groan with continual surges; and behind me
+       Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
+
+
+     Paint me a cavernous waste shore
+     Cast in the unstilted Cyclades,
+     Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
+     Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
+
+     Display me Aeolus above
+     Reviewing the insurgent gales
+     Which tangle Ariadne's hair
+     And swell with haste the perjured sails.
+
+     Morning stirs the feet and hands
+     (Nausicaa and Polypheme),
+     Gesture of orang-outang
+     Rises from the sheets in steam.
+
+     This withered root of knots of hair
+     Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
+     This oval O cropped out with teeth:
+     The sickle motion from the thighs
+
+     Jackknifes upward at the knees
+     Then straightens out from heel to hip
+     Pushing the framework of the bed
+     And clawing at the pillow slip.
+
+     Sweeney addressed full length to shave
+     Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
+     Knows the female temperament
+     And wipes the suds around his face.
+
+     (The lengthened shadow of a man
+     Is history, said Emerson
+     Who had not seen the silhouette
+     Of Sweeney straddled in the sun).
+
+     Tests the razor on his leg
+     Waiting until the shriek subsides.
+     The epileptic on the bed
+     Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
+
+     The ladies of the corridor
+     Find themselves involved, disgraced,
+     Call witness to their principles
+     And deprecate the lack of taste
+
+     Observing that hysteria
+     Might easily be misunderstood;
+     Mrs. Turner intimates
+     It does the house no sort of good.
+
+     But Doris, towelled from the bath,
+     Enters padding on broad feet,
+     Bringing sal volatile
+     And a glass of brandy neat.
+
+
+
+
+A Cooking Egg
+
+       En l'an trentiesme de mon aage
+       Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beues...
+
+
+     Pipit sate upright in her chair
+       Some distance from where I was sitting;
+     Views of the Oxford Colleges
+       Lay on the table, with the knitting.
+
+     Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
+       Her grandfather and great great aunts,
+     Supported on the mantelpiece
+       An Invitation to the Dance.
+      .    .    .    .    .    .
+     I shall not want Honour in Heaven
+       For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
+     And have talk with Coriolanus
+       And other heroes of that kidney.
+
+     I shall not want Capital in Heaven
+       For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond:
+     We two shall lie together, lapt
+       In a five per cent Exchequer Bond.
+
+     I shall not want Society in Heaven,
+       Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
+     Her anecdotes will be more amusing
+       Than Pipit's experience could provide.
+
+     I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
+       Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
+     In the Seven Sacred Trances;
+       Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.
+
+      .    .    .    .    .    .
+
+     But where is the penny world I bought
+       To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
+     The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
+       From Kentish Town and Golder's Green;
+
+     Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
+
+       Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
+     Over buttered scones and crumpets
+       Weeping, weeping multitudes
+     Droop in a hundred A.B.C.'s
+
+     ["ABC's" signifes endemic teashops, found in all parts of
+     London. The initials signify "Aerated Bread Company,
+     Limited."--Project Gutenberg Editor's replacement of
+     original footnote]
+
+
+
+
+Le Directeur
+
+     Malheur à la malheureuse Tamise!
+     Tamisel Qui coule si pres du Spectateur.
+     Le directeur
+     Conservateur
+     Du Spectateur
+     Empeste la brise.
+     Les actionnaires
+     Réactionnaires
+     Du Spectateur
+     Conservateur
+     Bras dessus bras dessous
+     Font des tours
+     A pas de loup.
+     Dans un égout
+     Une petite fille
+     En guenilles
+     Camarde
+     Regarde
+     Le directeur
+     Du Spectateur
+     Conservateur
+     Et crève d'amour.
+
+
+
+
+Mélange adultère de tout
+
+     En Amerique, professeur;
+     En Angleterre, journaliste;
+     C'est à grands pas et en sueur
+     Que vous suivrez à peine ma piste.
+     En Yorkshire, conferencier;
+     A Londres, un peu banquier,
+     Vous me paierez bien la tête.
+     C'est à Paris que je me coiffe
+     Casque noir de jemenfoutiste.
+     En Allemagne, philosophe
+     Surexcité par Emporheben
+     Au grand air de Bergsteigleben;
+     J'erre toujours de-ci de-là
+     A divers coups de tra la la
+     De Damas jusqu'à Omaha.
+     Je celebrai mon jour de fête
+     Dans une oasis d'Afrique
+     Vêtu d'une peau de girafe.
+
+     On montrera mon cénotaphe
+     Aux côtes brûlantes de Mozambique.
+
+
+
+
+Lune de Miel
+
+     Ils ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent à Terre Haute;
+     Mais une nuit d'été, les voici à Ravenne,
+     A l'sur le dos écartant les genoux
+     De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures.
+     On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner.
+     Moins d'une lieue d'ici est Saint Apollinaire
+     In Classe, basilique connue des amateurs
+     De chapitaux d'acanthe que touraoie le vent.
+
+     Ils vont prendre le train de huit heures
+     Prolonger leurs misères de Padoue à Milan
+     Ou se trouvent le Cène, et un restaurant pas cher.
+     Lui pense aux pourboires, et redige son bilan.
+     Ils auront vu la Suisse et traversé la France.
+     Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascétique,
+     Vieille usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore
+     Dans ses pierres ècroulantes la forme precise de Byzance.
+
+
+
+
+The Hippopotamus
+
+       Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut
+       mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum
+       Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros
+       autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem
+       Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de
+       quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
+
+       S. IGNATII AD TRALLIANOS.
+
+       And when this epistle is read among you, cause
+       that it be read also in the church of the
+       Laodiceans.
+
+
+     The broad-backed hippopotamus
+     Rests on his belly in the mud;
+     Although he seems so firm to us
+     He is merely flesh and blood.
+
+     Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
+     Susceptible to nervous shock;
+     While the True Church can never fail
+     For it is based upon a rock.
+
+     The hippo's feeble steps may err
+     In compassing material ends,
+     While the True Church need never stir
+     To gather in its dividends.
+
+     The 'potamus can never reach
+     The mango on the mango-tree;
+     But fruits of pomegranate and peach
+     Refresh the Church from over sea.
+
+     At mating time the hippo's voice
+     Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
+     But every week we hear rejoice
+     The Church, at being one with God.
+
+     The hippopotamus's day
+     Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
+     God works in a mysterious way-
+     The Church can sleep and feed at once.
+
+     I saw the 'potamus take wing
+     Ascending from the damp savannas,
+     And quiring angels round him sing
+     The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
+
+     Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
+     And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
+     Among the saints he shall be seen
+     Performing on a harp of gold.
+
+     He shall be washed as white as snow,
+     By all the martyr'd virgins kiss,
+     While the True Church remains below
+     Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
+
+
+
+
+Dans le Restaurant
+
+     Le garcon délabré qui n'a rien à faire
+     Que de se gratter les doigts et se pencher sur mon épaule:
+       "Dans mon pays il fera temps pluvieux,
+       Du vent, du grand soleil, et de la pluie;
+       C'est ce qu'on appelle le jour de lessive des gueux."
+     (Bavard, baveux, à la croupe arrondie,
+     Je te prie, au moins, ne bave pas dans la soupe).
+       "Les saules trempés, et des bourgeons sur les ronces--
+       C'est là, dans une averse, qu'on s'abrite.
+     J'avais septtans, elle était plus petite.
+       Elle etait toute mouillée, je lui ai donné des primavères."
+     Les tâches de son gilet montent au chiffre de trente-huit.
+       "Je la chatouillais, pour la faire rire.
+       J'éprouvais un instant de puissance et de délire."
+
+             Mais alors, vieux lubrique, a cet âge...
+       "Monsieur, le fait est dur.
+       Il est venu, nous peloter, un gros chien;
+       Moi j'avais peur, je l'ai quittee a mi-chemin.
+       C'est dommage."
+
+           Mais alors, tu as ton vautour!
+     Va t'en te décrotter les rides du visage;
+     Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne.
+     De quel droit payes-tu des expériences comme moi?
+     Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bains.
+
+     Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé,
+     Oubliait les cris des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille,
+     Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d'etain:
+     Un courant de sous-mer l'emporta tres loin,
+     Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure.
+     Figurez-vous donc, c'etait un sort penible;
+     Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille.
+
+
+
+
+Whispers of Immortality
+
+     Webster was much possessed by death
+     And saw the skull beneath the skin;
+     And breastless creatures under ground
+     Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
+
+     Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
+     Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
+     He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
+     Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
+
+     Donne, I suppose, was such another
+     Who found no substitute for sense;
+     To seize and clutch and penetrate,
+     Expert beyond experience,
+
+     He knew the anguish of the marrow
+     The ague of the skeleton;
+     No contact possible to flesh
+     Allayed the fever of the bone.
+
+    .    .    .    .    .
+
+     Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
+     Is underlined for emphasis;
+     Uncorseted, her friendly bust
+     Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
+
+     The couched Brazilian jaguar
+     Compels the scampering marmoset
+     With subtle effluence of cat;
+     Grishkin has a maisonette;
+
+     The sleek Brazilian jaguar
+     Does not in its arboreal gloom
+     Distil so rank a feline smell
+     As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
+
+     And even the Abstract Entities
+     Circumambulate her charm;
+     But our lot crawls between dry ribs
+     To keep our metaphysics warm.
+
+
+
+
+Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service
+
+       Look, look, master, here comes two religious
+       caterpillars.
+                     The Jew of Malta.
+
+
+     Polyphiloprogenitive
+     The sapient sutlers of the Lord
+     Drift across the window-panes.
+     In the beginning was the Word.
+
+     In the beginning was the Word.
+     Superfetation of [Greek text inserted here],
+     And at the mensual turn of time
+     Produced enervate Origen.
+
+     A painter of the Umbrian school
+     Designed upon a gesso ground
+     The nimbus of the Baptized God.
+     The wilderness is cracked and browned
+
+     But through the water pale and thin
+     Still shine the unoffending feet
+     And there above the painter set
+     The Father and the Paraclete.
+    .    .    .    .    .
+     The sable presbyters approach
+     The avenue of penitence;
+     The young are red and pustular
+     Clutching piaculative pence.
+
+     Under the penitential gates
+     Sustained by staring Seraphim
+     Where the souls of the devout
+     Burn invisible and dim.
+
+     Along the garden-wall the bees
+     With hairy bellies pass between
+     The staminate and pistilate,
+     Blest office of the epicene.
+
+     Sweeney shifts from ham to ham
+     Stirring the water in his bath.
+     The masters of the subtle schools
+     Are controversial, polymath.
+
+
+
+
+Sweeney Among the Nightingales
+
+       [Greek text inserted here]
+
+
+     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 hornèd 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,
+     Reorganized 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 figs 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, thought 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,
+     And let their liquid droppings fall
+     To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.
+
+
+
+
+The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
+
+       S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
+       A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
+       Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
+       Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
+       Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
+       Senza tema d'infamia 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 thin!")
+     My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
+     My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
+     (They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
+     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 a 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 some 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 toward 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 eat 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.
+
+
+
+
+Portrait of a Lady
+
+       Thou hast committed--
+       Fornication: but that was in another country
+       And besides, the wench is dead.
+       The Jew of Malta.
+
+
+     I
+
+     Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
+     You have the scene arrange itself--as it will seem to do--
+     With "I have saved this afternoon for you";
+     And four wax candles in the darkened room,
+     Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
+     An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb
+     Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
+     We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
+     Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.
+     "So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
+     Should be resurrected only among friends
+     Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
+     That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."
+     --And so the conversation slips
+     Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
+     Through attenuated tones of violins
+     Mingled with remote cornets
+     And begins.
+
+     "You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
+     And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
+     In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
+     (For indeed I do not love it... you knew? you are not blind!
+     How keen you are!)
+     To find a friend who has these qualities,
+     Who has, and gives
+     Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
+     How much it means that I say this to you--
+     Without these friendships--life, what cauchemar!"
+     Among the windings of the violins
+     And the ariettes
+     Of cracked cornets
+     Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
+     Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
+     Capricious monotone
+     That is at least one definite "false note."
+     --Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
+     Admire the monuments
+     Discuss the late events,
+     Correct our watches by the public clocks.
+     Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.
+
+     II
+
+     Now that lilacs are in bloom
+     She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
+     And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
+     "Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
+     What life is, you should hold it in your hands";
+     (Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
+     "You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
+     And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
+     And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
+     I smile, of course,
+     And go on drinking tea.
+     "Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
+     My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
+     I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
+     To be wonderful and youthful, after all."
+
+     The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
+     Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
+     "I am always sure that you understand
+     My feelings, always sure that you feel,
+     Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
+
+     You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.
+     You will go on, and when you have prevailed
+     You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
+
+     But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
+     To give you, what can you receive from me?
+     Only the friendship and the sympathy
+     Of one about to reach her journey's end.
+
+     I shall sit here, serving tea to friends...."
+
+     I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
+     For what she has said to me?
+     You will see me any morning in the park
+     Reading the comics and the sporting page.
+     Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage.
+     A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
+     Another bank defaulter has confessed.
+     I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed
+     Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
+     Reiterates some worn-out common song
+     With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
+     Recalling things that other people have desired.
+     Are these ideas right or wrong?
+
+     III
+
+     The October night comes down; returning as before
+     Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
+     I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
+     And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
+
+     "And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
+     But that's a useless question.
+     You hardly know when you are coming back,
+     You will find so much to learn."
+     My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.
+
+     "Perhaps you can write to me."
+     My self-possession flares up for a second;
+     This is as I had reckoned.
+
+     "I have been wondering frequently of late
+     (But our beginnings never know our ends!)
+     Why we have not developed into friends."
+     I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
+     Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
+     My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.
+
+     "For everybody said so, all our friends,
+     They all were sure our feelings would relate
+     So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
+     We must leave it now to fate.
+     You will write, at any rate.
+     Perhaps it is not too late.
+     I shall sit here, serving tea to friends."
+
+     And I must borrow every changing shape
+     To find expression... dance, dance
+     Like a dancing bear,
+     Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
+     Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance--
+     Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
+     Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
+     Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
+     With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
+     Doubtful, for quite a while
+     Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
+     Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...
+     Would she not have the advantage, after all?
+     This music is successful with a "dying fall"
+     Now that we talk of dying--
+     And should I have the right to smile?
+
+
+
+
+Preludes
+
+     I
+
+     The winter evening settles down
+     With smell of steaks in passageways.
+     Six o'clock.
+     The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
+     And now a gusty shower wraps
+     The grimy scraps
+     Of withered leaves about your feet
+     And newspapers from vacant lots;
+     The showers beat
+     On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
+     And at the corner of the street
+     A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
+     And then the lighting of the lamps.
+
+     II
+
+     The morning comes to consciousness
+     Of faint stale smells of beer
+     From the sawdust-trampled street
+     With all its muddy feet that press
+     To early coffee-stands.
+
+     With the other masquerades
+     That time resumes,
+     One thinks of all the hands
+     That are raising dingy shades
+     In a thousand furnished rooms.
+
+     III
+
+     You tossed a blanket from the bed,
+     You lay upon your back, and waited;
+     You dozed, and watched the night revealing
+     The thousand sordid images
+     Of which your soul was constituted;
+     They flickered against the ceiling.
+     And when all the world came back
+     And the light crept up between the shutters,
+     And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
+     You had such a vision of the street
+     As the street hardly understands;
+     Sitting along the bed's edge, where
+     You curled the papers from your hair,
+     Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
+     In the palms of both soiled hands.
+
+     IV
+
+     His soul stretched tight across the skies
+     That fade behind a city block,
+     Or trampled by insistent feet
+     At four and five and six o'clock;
+     And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
+     And evening newspapers, and eyes
+     Assured of certain certainties,
+     The conscience of a blackened street
+     Impatient to assume the world.
+
+     I am moved by fancies that are curled
+     Around these images, and cling:
+     The notion of some infinitely gentle
+     Infinitely suffering thing.
+
+     Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
+     The worlds revolve like ancient women
+     Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
+
+
+
+
+Rhapsody on a Windy Night
+
+     Twelve o'clock.
+     Along the reaches of the street
+     Held in a lunar synthesis,
+     Whispering lunar incantations
+     Disolve the floors of memory
+     And all its clear relations,
+     Its divisions and precisions,
+     Every street lamp that I pass
+     Beats like a fatalistic drum,
+     And through the spaces of the dark
+     Midnight shakes the memory
+     As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
+
+     Half-past one,
+     The street lamp sputtered,
+     The street lamp muttered,
+     The street lamp said,
+     "Regard that woman
+     Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
+     Which opens on her like a grin.
+     You see the border of her dress
+     Is torn and stained with sand,
+     And you see the corner of her eye
+     Twists like a crooked pin."
+
+     The memory throws up high and dry
+     A crowd of twisted things;
+     A twisted branch upon the beach
+     Eaten smooth, and polished
+     As if the world gave up
+     The secret of its skeleton,
+     Stiff and white.
+     A broken spring in a factory yard,
+     Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
+     Hard and curled and ready to snap.
+
+     Half-past two,
+     The street-lamp said,
+     "Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
+     Slips out its tongue
+     And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
+     So the hand of the child, automatic,
+     Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along
+     the quay.
+     I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
+     I have seen eyes in the street
+     Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
+     And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
+     An old crab with barnacles on his back,
+     Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
+
+     Half-past three,
+     The lamp sputtered,
+     The lamp muttered in the dark.
+
+     The lamp hummed:
+     "Regard the moon,
+     La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
+     She winks a feeble eye,
+     She smiles into corners.
+     She smooths the hair of the grass.
+     The moon has lost her memory.
+     A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
+     Her hand twists a paper rose,
+     That smells of dust and old Cologne,
+     She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells
+     That cross and cross across her brain.
+     The reminiscence comes
+     Of sunless dry geraniums
+     And dust in crevices,
+     Smells of chestnuts in the streets
+     And female smells in shuttered rooms
+     And cigarettes in corridors
+     And cocktail smells in bars."
+
+     The lamp said,
+     "Four o'clock,
+     Here is the number on the door.
+     Memory!
+     You have the key,
+     The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
+     Mount.
+     The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
+     Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
+
+     The last twist of the knife.
+
+
+
+
+Morning at the Window
+
+     They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
+     And along the trampled edges of the street
+     I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
+     Sprouting despondently at area gates.
+     The brown waves of fog toss up to me
+     Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
+     And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
+     An aimless smile that hovers in the air
+     And vanishes along the level of the roofs.
+
+
+
+
+The Boston Evening Transcript
+
+     The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
+     Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
+     When evening quickens faintly in the street,
+     Wakening the appetites of life in some
+     And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
+     I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
+     Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
+     If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
+     And I say, "Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript."
+
+
+
+
+Aunt Helen
+
+     Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,
+     And lived in a small house near a fashionable square
+     Cared for by servants to the number of four.
+     Now when she died there was silence in heaven
+     And silence at her end of the street.
+     The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet--
+     He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.
+     The dogs were handsomely provided for,
+     But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
+     The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
+     And the footman sat upon the dining-table
+     Holding the second housemaid on his knees--
+     Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.
+
+
+
+
+Cousin Nancy
+
+     Miss Nancy Ellicott Strode across the hills and broke them,
+     Rode across the hills and broke them--
+     The barren New England hills--
+     Riding to hounds
+     Over the cow-pasture.
+
+     Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked
+     And danced all the modern dances;
+     And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it,
+     But they knew that it was modern.
+
+     Upon the glazen shelves kept watch
+     Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,
+     The army of unalterable law.
+
+
+
+
+Mr. Apollinax
+
+     When Mr. Apollinax visited the United States
+     His laughter tinkled among the teacups.
+     I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees,
+     And of Priapus in the shrubbery
+     Gaping at the lady in the swing.
+     In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah's
+     He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
+     HWith your aid indiffeis laughter was submarine and profound
+     Like the old man of the sea's
+     Hidden under coral islands
+     Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,
+     Dropping from fingers of surf.
+     I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair
+     Or grinning over a screen
+     With seaweed in its hair.
+     I heard the beat of centaur's hoofs over the hard turf
+     As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.
+     "He is a charming man"--"But after all what did he mean?"--
+     "His pointed ears... He must be unbalanced,"--
+     "There was something he said that I might have challenged."
+     Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah
+     I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten macaroon.
+
+
+
+
+Hysteria
+
+     As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her
+     laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were
+     only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I
+     was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary
+     recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her
+     throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An
+     elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly
+     spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty
+     green iron table, saying: "If the lady and gentleman
+     wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and
+     gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden..." I
+     decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be
+     stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might
+     be collected, and I concentrated my attention with
+     careful subtlety to this end.
+
+
+
+
+Conversation Galante
+
+     I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon!
+     Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
+     It may be Prester John's balloon
+     Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
+     To light poor travellers to their distress."
+       She then: "How you digress!"
+
+     And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys
+     That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
+     The night and moonshine; music which we seize
+     To body forth our vacuity."
+       She then: "Does this refer to me?"
+       "Oh no, it is I who am inane."
+
+     "You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
+     The eternal enemy of the absolute,
+     Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
+     With your air indifferent and imperious
+     At a stroke our mad poetics to confute--"
+       And--"Are we then so serious?"
+
+
+
+
+La Figlia Che Piange
+
+       O quam te memorem Virgo...
+
+
+     Stand on the highest pavement of the stair--
+     Lean on a garden urn--
+     Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair--
+     Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise--
+     Fling them to the ground and turn
+     With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
+     But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
+
+     So I would have had him leave,
+     So I would have had her stand and grieve,
+     So he would have left
+     As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
+     As the mind deserts the body it has used.
+     I should find
+     Some way incomparably light and deft,
+     Some way we both should understand,
+     Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
+
+     She turned away, but with the autumn weather
+     Compelled my imagination many days,
+     Many days and many hours:
+     Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
+     And I wonder how they should have been together!
+     I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
+     Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
+     The troubled midnight and the noon's repose.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by T. S. [Thomas Stearns] Eliot
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+******The Project Gutenberg Etext of Poems, by T. S. Eliot******
+#3 in our series by T. S. Eliot
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+Poems
+
+by T. S. [Thomas Stearns] Eliot
+
+December, 1998  [Etext #1567]
+[Date last updated: February 22, 2004]
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+[Project Gutenberg Editor's note: This Etext is prepared with an
+extended character set to display characters with diacritical marks
+appropriate to phrases and poems written in foreign languages. For
+a version of this poetry volume which uses a basic character set
+without diacritical marks, please see Project Gutenberg files named
+TSEPM10.TXT and TSEPM10.ZIP.]
+
+
+
+POEMS
+
+by T. S. ELIOT
+
+
+New York Alfred A. Knopf 1920
+
+
+To Jean Verdenal 1889-1915
+
+
+Certain of these poems first appeared in Poetry, Blast, Others, The 
+Little Review, and Art and Letters.
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+Gerontion
+Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar
+Sweeney Erect
+A Cooking Egg
+Le Directeur
+Mélange adultère de tout
+Lune de Miel
+The Hippopotamus
+Dans le Restaurant
+Whispers of Immortality
+Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service
+Sweeney Among the Nightingales
+The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
+Portrait of a Lady
+Preludes
+Rhapsody on a Windy Night
+Morning at the Window
+The Boston Evening Transcript
+Aunt Helen
+Cousin Nancy
+Mr. Apollinax
+Hysteria
+Conversation Galante
+La Figlia Che Pianga
+
+
+
+POEMS
+
+
+
+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; Fraulein 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 it 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,
+White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
+And an old man driven by the Trades
+To a sleepy corner.
+
+                  Tenants of the house,
+Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.
+
+
+
+Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar
+
+  Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire--nil nisi divinum stabile 
+  est; caetera fumus--the gondola stopped, the old 
+  palace was there, how charming its grey and pink--
+  goats and monkeys, with such hair too!--so the 
+  countess passed on until she came through the 
+  little park, where Niobe presented her with a 
+  cabinet, and so departed.
+
+
+Burbank crossed a little bridge
+Descending at a small hotel;
+Princess Volupine arrived,
+They were together, and he fell.
+
+Defunctive music under sea
+Passed seaward with the passing bell
+Slowly: the God Hercules
+Had left him, that had loved him well.
+
+The horses, under the axletree
+Beat up the dawn from Istria
+With even feet. Her shuttered barge
+Burned on the water all the day.
+
+But this or such was Bleistein's way:
+A saggy bending of the knees
+And elbows, with the palms turned out,
+Chicago Semite Viennese.
+
+A lustreless protrusive eye
+Stares from the protozoic slime
+At a perspective of Canaletto.
+The smoky candle end of time
+
+Declines. On the Rialto once.
+The rats are underneath the piles.
+The jew is underneath the lot.
+Money in furs. The boatman smiles,
+
+Princess Volupine extends
+A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
+To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
+She entertains Sir Ferdinand
+
+Klein. Who clipped the lion's wings
+And flea'd his rump and pared his claws?
+Thought Burbank, meditating on
+Time's ruins, and the seven laws.
+
+
+
+Sweeney Erect
+
+                      And the trees about me,
+  Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
+  Groan with continual surges; and behind me
+  Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
+
+
+Paint me a cavernous waste shore
+Cast in the unstilted Cyclades,
+Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
+Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
+
+Display me Aeolus above
+Reviewing the insurgent gales
+Which tangle Ariadne's hair
+And swell with haste the perjured sails.
+
+Morning stirs the feet and hands
+(Nausicaa and Polypheme),
+Gesture of orang-outang
+Rises from the sheets in steam.
+
+This withered root of knots of hair
+Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
+This oval O cropped out with teeth:
+The sickle motion from the thighs
+
+Jackknifes upward at the knees
+Then straightens out from heel to hip
+Pushing the framework of the bed
+And clawing at the pillow slip.
+
+Sweeney addressed full length to shave
+Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
+Knows the female temperament
+And wipes the suds around his face.
+
+(The lengthened shadow of a man
+Is history, said Emerson
+Who had not seen the silhouette
+Of Sweeney straddled in the sun).
+
+Tests the razor on his leg
+Waiting until the shriek subsides.
+The epileptic on the bed
+Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
+
+The ladies of the corridor
+Find themselves involved, disgraced,
+Call witness to their principles
+And deprecate the lack of taste
+
+Observing that hysteria
+Might easily be misunderstood;
+Mrs. Turner intimates
+It does the house no sort of good.
+
+But Doris, towelled from the bath,
+Enters padding on broad feet,
+Bringing sal volatile
+And a glass of brandy neat.
+
+
+
+A Cooking Egg
+
+  En l'an trentiesme de mon aage
+  Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beucs ...
+
+
+Pipit sate upright in her chair
+  Some distance from where I was sitting;
+Views of the Oxford Colleges
+  Lay on the table, with the knitting.
+
+Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
+  Her grandfather and great great aunts,
+Supported on the mantelpiece
+  An Invitation to the Dance.
+  .     .     .     .     .     .
+I shall not want Honour in Heaven
+  For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
+And have talk with Coriolanus
+  And other heroes of that kidney.
+
+I shall not want Capital in Heaven
+  For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond:
+We two shall lie together, lapt
+  In a five per cent Exchequer Bond.
+
+I shall not want Society in Heaven,
+  Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
+Her anecdotes will be more amusing
+  Than Pipit's experience could provide.
+
+I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
+  Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
+In the Seven Sacred Trances;
+  Piccarda de Donati will conduct me ...
+  .     .     .     .     .     . 
+But where is the penny world I bought
+  To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
+The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
+  From Kentish Town and Golder's Green;
+
+Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
+
+  Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
+Over buttered scones and crumpets
+  Weeping, weeping multitudes
+Droop in a hundred A.B.C.'s
+
+["ABC's" signifes endemic teashops, found in all parts of 
+London. The initials signify "Aerated Bread Company, 
+Limited."--Project Gutenberg Editor's replacement of
+original footnote]
+
+
+
+Le Directeur
+
+Malheur à la malheureuse Tamise!
+Tamisel Qui coule si pres du Spectateur.
+Le directeur
+Conservateur
+Du Spectateur
+Empeste la brise.
+Les actionnaires
+Réactionnaires
+Du Spectateur
+Conservateur
+Bras dessus bras dessous
+Font des tours
+A pas de loup.
+Dans un égout
+Une petite fille
+En guenilles
+Camarde
+Regarde
+Le directeur
+Du Spectateur
+Conservateur
+Et crève d'amour.
+
+
+
+Mélange adultère de tout
+
+En Amerique, professeur;
+En Angleterre, journaliste;
+C'est à grands pas et en sueur
+Que vous suivrez à peine ma piste.
+En Yorkshire, conferencier;
+A Londres, un peu banquier,
+Vous me paierez bien la tête.
+C'est à Paris que je me coiffe
+Casque noir de jemenfoutiste.
+En Allemagne, philosophe
+Surexcité par Emporheben
+Au grand air de Bergsteigleben;
+J'erre toujours de-ci de-là
+A divers coups de tra la la
+De Damas jusqu'à Omaha.
+Je celebrai mon jour de fête
+Dans une oasis d'Afrique
+Vêtu d'une peau de girafe.
+
+On montrera mon cénotaphe
+Aux côtes brûlantes de Mozambique.
+
+
+
+Lune de Miel
+
+Ils ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent à Terre Haute;
+Mais une nuit d'été, les voici à Ravenne,
+A l'sur le dos écartant les genoux
+De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures.
+On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner.
+Moins d'une lieue d'ici est Saint Apollinaire
+In Classe, basilique connue des amateurs
+De chapitaux d'acanthe que touraoie le vent.
+
+Ils vont prendre le train de huit heures
+Prolonger leurs misères de Padoue à Milan
+Ou se trouvent le Cène, et un restaurant pas cher.
+Lui pense aux pourboires, et redige son bilan.
+Ils auront vu la Suisse et traversé la France.
+Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascétique,
+Vieille usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore
+Dans ses pierres ècroulantes la forme precise de Byzance.
+
+
+
+The Hippopotamus
+
+  Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut 
+  mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum 
+  Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros 
+  autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem 
+  Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de 
+  quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
+
+  S. IGNATII AD TRALLIANOS.
+
+  And when this epistle is read among you, cause 
+  that it be read also in the church of the 
+  Laodiceans.
+
+
+The broad-backed hippopotamus
+Rests on his belly in the mud;
+Although he seems so firm to us
+He is merely flesh and blood.
+
+Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
+Susceptible to nervous shock;
+While the True Church can never fail
+For it is based upon a rock.
+
+The hippo's feeble steps may err
+In compassing material ends,
+While the True Church need never stir
+To gather in its dividends.
+
+The 'potamus can never reach
+The mango on the mango-tree;
+But fruits of pomegranate and peach
+Refresh the Church from over sea.
+
+At mating time the hippo's voice
+Betrays inliexions hoarse and odd,
+But every week we hear rejoice
+The Church, at being one with God.
+
+The hippopotamus's day
+Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
+God works in a mysterious way-
+The Church can sleep and feed at once.
+
+I saw the 'potamus take wing
+Ascending from the damp savannas,
+And quiring angels round him sing
+The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
+
+Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
+And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
+Among the saints he shall be seen
+Performing on a harp of gold.
+
+He shall be washed as white as snow,
+By all the martyr'd virgins kiss,
+While the True Church remains below
+Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
+
+
+
+Dans le Restaurant
+
+Le garcon délabré qui n'a rien à faire
+Que de se gratter les doigts et se pencher sur mon épaule:
+  "Dans mon pays il fera temps pluvieux,
+  Du vent, du grand soleil, et de la pluie;
+  C'est ce qu'on appelle le jour de lessive des gueux."
+(Bavard, baveux, à la croupe arrondie,
+Je te prie, au moins, ne bave pas dans la soupe).
+  "Les saules trempés, et des bourgeons sur les ronces--
+  C'est là, dans une averse, qu'on s'abrite.
+J'avais septtans, elle était plus petite.
+  Elle etait toute mouillée, je lui ai donné des primavères."
+Les tâches de son gilet montent au chiffre de trente-huit.
+  "Je la chatouillais, pour la faire rire.
+  J'éprouvais un instant de puissance et de délire.
+
+        Mais alors, vieux lubrique, a cet âge ...
+  "Monsieur, le fait est dur.
+  Il est venu, nous peloter, un gros chien;
+  Moi j'avais peur, je l'ai quittee a mi-chemin.
+  C'est dommage."
+ 
+      Mais alors, tu as ton vautour!
+Va t'en te décrotter les rides du visage;
+Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne.
+De quel droit payes-tu des expériences comme moi?
+Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bains.
+
+Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé,
+Oubliait les cris des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille,
+Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d'etain:
+Un courant de sous-mer l'emporta tres loin,
+Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure.
+Figurez-vous donc, c'etait un sort penible;
+Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille.
+
+
+
+Whispers of Immortality
+
+Webster was much possessed by death
+And saw the skull beneath the skin;
+And breastless creatures under ground
+Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
+
+Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
+Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
+He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
+Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
+
+Donne, I suppose, was such another
+Who found no substitute for sense;
+To seize and clutch and penetrate,
+Expert beyond experience,
+
+He knew the anguish of the marrow
+The ague of the skeleton;
+No contact possible to flesh
+Allayed the fever of the bone.
+.     .     .     .     .
+Grishkin is nice: her
+Russian eye is underlined for emphasis;
+Uncorseted, her friendly bust
+Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
+
+The couched Brazilian jaguar
+Compels the scampering marmoset
+With subtle effluence of cat;
+Grishkin has a maisonette;
+
+The sleek Brazilian jaguar
+Does not in its arboreal gloom
+Distil so rank a feline smell
+As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
+
+And even the Abstract Entities
+Circumambulate her charm;
+But our lot crawls between dry ribs
+To keep our metaphysics warm.
+
+
+
+Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service
+
+  Look, look, master, here comes two religions 
+  caterpillars.
+                The Jew of Malta.
+
+
+Polyphiloprogenitive
+The sapient sutlers of the Lord
+Drift across the window-panes.
+In the beginning was the Word.
+
+In the beginning was the Word.
+Superfetation of [Greek text inserted here],
+And at the mensual turn of time
+Produced enervate Origen.
+
+A painter of the Umbrian school
+Designed upon a gesso ground
+The nimbus of the Baptized God.
+The wilderness is cracked and browned
+
+But through the water pale and thin
+Still shine the unoffending feet
+And there above the painter set
+The Father and the Paraclete.
+.     .     .     .     .
+The sable presbyters approach
+The avenue of penitence;
+The young are red and pustular
+Clutching piaculative pence.
+
+Under the penitential gates
+Sustained by staring Seraphim
+Where the souls of the devout
+Burn invisible and dim.
+
+Along the garden-wall the bees
+With hairy bellies pass between
+The staminate and pistilate,
+Blest office of the epicene.
+
+Sweeney shifts from ham to ham
+Stirring the water in his bath.
+The masters of the subtle schools
+Are controversial, polymath.
+
+
+
+Sweeney Among the Nightingales
+
+  [Greek text inserted here]
+
+
+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,
+Reorganized 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 figs 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, thought 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,
+And let their liquid droppings fall
+To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.
+
+
+
+The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
+
+  S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
+  A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
+  Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
+  Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
+  Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
+  Senza tema d'infamia 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 thin!")
+My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
+My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
+(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
+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 a 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 doors of silent seas.
+.     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     . 
+And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
+Smoothed by long fingers,
+Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers.
+Stretched on 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 some 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 toward 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 eat 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.
+
+
+
+Portrait of a Lady
+
+  Thou hast committed--
+  Fornication: but that was in another country
+  And besides, the wench is dead.
+  The Jew of Malta.
+
+
+I
+
+Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
+You have the scene arrange itself--as it will seem to do--
+With "I have saved this afternoon for you";
+And four wax candles in the darkened room,
+Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
+An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb
+Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
+We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
+Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.
+"So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
+Should be resurrected only among friends
+Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
+That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."
+--And so the conversation slips
+Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
+Through attenuated tones of violins
+Mingled with remote cornets
+And begins.
+
+"You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
+And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
+In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
+(For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind!
+How keen you are!)
+To find a friend who has these qualities,
+Who has, and gives
+Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
+How much it means that I say this to you--
+Without these friendships--life, what cauchemar!"
+Among the windings of the violins
+And the ariettes
+Of cracked cornets
+Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
+Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
+Capricious monotone
+That is at least one definite "false note."
+--Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
+Admire the monuments
+Discuss the late events,
+Correct our watches by the public clocks.
+Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.
+
+II
+
+Now that lilacs are in bloom
+She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
+And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
+"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
+What life is, you should hold it in your hands";
+(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
+"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
+And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
+And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
+I smile, of course,
+And go on drinking tea.
+"Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
+My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
+I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
+To be wonderful and youthful, after all."
+
+The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
+Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
+"I am always sure that you understand
+My feelings, always sure that you feel,
+Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
+
+You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel.
+You will go on, and when you have prevailed
+You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
+
+But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
+To give you, what can you receive from me?
+Only the friendship and the sympathy
+Of one about to reach her journey's end.
+
+I shall sit here, serving tea to friends...."
+
+I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
+For what she has said to me?
+You will see me any morning in the park
+Reading the comics and the sporting page.
+Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage.
+A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
+Another bank defaulter has confessed.
+I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed
+Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
+Reiterates some worn-out common song
+With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
+Recalling things that other people have desired.
+Are these ideas right or wrong?
+
+III
+
+The October night comes down; returning as before
+Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
+I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
+And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
+
+"And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
+But that's a useless question.
+You hardly know when you are coming back,
+You will find so much to learn."
+My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.
+
+"Perhaps you can write to me."
+My self-possession flares up for a second;
+This is as I had reckoned.
+
+"I have been wondering frequently of late
+(But our beginnings never know our ends!)
+Why we have not developed into friends."
+I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
+Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
+My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.
+
+"For everybody said so, all our friends,
+They all were sure our feelings would relate
+So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
+We must leave it now to fate.
+You will write, at any rate.
+Perhaps it is not too late.
+I shall sit here, serving tea to friends."
+
+And I must borrow every changing shape 
+To find expression ... dance, dance
+Like a dancing bear,
+Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
+Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance--
+Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
+Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
+Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
+With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
+Doubtful, for quite a while
+Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
+Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon ...
+Would she not have the advantage, after all?
+This music is successful with a "dying fall"
+Now that we talk of dying--
+And should I have the right to smile?
+
+
+
+Preludes
+
+I
+
+The winter evening settles down
+With smell of steaks in passageways.
+Six o'clock.
+The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
+And now a gusty shower wraps
+The grimy scraps
+Of withered leaves about your feet
+And newspapers from vacant lots;
+The showers beat
+On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
+And at the corner of the street
+A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
+And then the lighting of the lamps.
+
+II
+
+The morning comes to consciousness
+Of faint stale smells of beer
+From the sawdust-trampled street
+With all its muddy feet that press
+To early coffee-stands.
+
+With the other masquerades
+That time resumes,
+One thinks of all the hands
+That are raising dingy shades
+In a thousand furnished rooms.
+
+III
+
+You tossed a blanket from the bed,
+You lay upon your back, and waited;
+You dozed, and watched the night revealing
+The thousand sordid images
+Of which your soul was constituted;
+They flickered against the ceiling.
+And when all the world came back
+And the light crept up between the shutters,
+And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
+You had such a vision of the street
+As the street hardly understands;
+Sitting along the bed's edge, where
+You curled the papers from your hair,
+Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
+In the palms of both soiled hands.
+
+IV
+
+His soul stretched tight across the skies
+That fade behind a city block,
+Or trampled by insistent feet
+At four and five and six o'clock;
+And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
+And evening newspapers, and eyes
+Assured of certain certainties,
+The conscience of a blackened street
+Impatient to assume the world.
+
+I am moved by fancies that are curled
+Around these images, and cling:
+The notion of some infinitely gentle
+Infinitely suffering thing.
+
+Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
+The worlds revolve like ancient women
+Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
+
+
+
+Rhapsody on a Windy Night
+
+Twelve o'clock.
+Along the reaches of the street
+Held in a lunar synthesis,
+Whispering lunar incantations
+Disolve the floors of memory
+And all its clear relations,
+Its divisions and precisions,
+Every street lamp that I pass
+Beats like a fatalistic drum,
+And through the spaces of the dark
+Midnight shakes the memory
+As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
+
+Half-past one,
+The street lamp sputtered,
+The street lamp muttered,
+The street lamp said,
+"Regard that woman
+Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
+Which opens on her like a grin.
+You see the border of her dress
+Is torn and stained with sand,
+And you see the corner of her eye
+Twists like a crooked pin."
+ 
+The memory throws up high and dry
+A crowd of twisted things;
+A twisted branch upon the beach
+Eaten smooth, and polished
+As if the world gave up
+The secret of its skeleton,
+Stiff and white.
+A broken spring in a factory yard,
+Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
+Hard and curled and ready to snap.
+
+Half-past two,
+The street-lamp said,
+"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
+Slips out its tongue
+And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
+So the hand of the child, automatic,
+Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along 
+the quay.
+I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
+I have seen eyes in the street
+Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
+And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
+An old crab with barnacles on his back,
+Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
+
+Half-past three,
+The lamp sputtered,
+The lamp muttered in the dark.
+
+The lamp hummed:
+"Regard the moon,
+La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
+She winks a feeble eye,
+She smiles into corners.
+She smooths the hair of the grass.
+The moon has lost her memory.
+A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
+Her hand twists a paper rose,
+That smells of dust and old Cologne,
+She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells
+That cross and cross across her brain.
+The reminiscence comes
+Of sunless dry geraniums
+And dust in crevices,
+Smells of chestnuts in the streets
+And female smells in shuttered rooms
+And cigarettes in corridors
+And cocktail smells in bars."
+
+The lamp said,
+"Four o'clock,
+Here is the number on the door.
+Memory!
+You have the key,
+The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
+Mount.
+The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
+Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
+
+The last twist of the knife.
+
+
+
+Morning at the Window
+
+They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
+And along the trampled edges of the street
+I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
+Sprouting despondently at area gates.
+The brown waves of fog toss up to me
+Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
+And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
+An aimless smile that hovers in the air
+And vanishes along the level of the roofs.
+
+
+
+The Boston Evening Transcript
+
+The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
+Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
+When evening quickens faintly in the street,
+Wakening the appetites of life in some
+And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
+I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
+Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
+If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
+And I say, "Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript." 
+
+
+
+Aunt Helen
+
+Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,
+And lived in a small house near a fashionable square
+Cared for by servants to the number of four.
+Now when she died there was silence in heaven
+And silence at her end of the street.
+The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet--
+He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.
+The dogs were handsomely provided for,
+But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
+The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
+And the footman sat upon the dining-table
+Holding the second housemaid on his knees--
+Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.
+
+
+
+Cousin Nancy
+
+Miss Nancy Ellicott Strode across the hills and broke them,
+Rode across the hills and broke them--
+The barren New England hills--
+Riding to hounds
+Over the cow-pasture.
+
+Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked
+And danced all the modern dances;
+And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it,
+But they knew that it was modern.
+
+Upon the glazen shelves kept watch
+Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,
+The army of unalterable law.
+
+
+
+Mr. Apollinax
+
+When Mr. Apollinax visited the United States
+His laughter tinkled among the teacups.
+I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees,
+And of Priapus in the shrubbery
+Gaping at the lady in the swing.
+In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah's
+He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
+Otis laughter was submarine and profound
+Like the old man of the sea's
+Hidden under coral islands
+Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,
+Dropping from fingers of surf.
+I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair
+Or grinning over a screen
+With seaweed in its hair.
+I heard the beat of centaur's hoofs over the hard turf
+As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.
+"He is a charming man"--"But after all what did he mean?"--
+"His pointed ears ... He must be unbalanced,"--
+"There was something he said that I might have challenged."
+Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah
+I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten macaroon.
+
+
+
+Hysteria
+
+As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her 
+laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were 
+only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I 
+was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary 
+recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her 
+throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An 
+elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly 
+spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty 
+green iron table, saying: "If the lady and gentleman 
+wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and 
+gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden ..." I 
+decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be 
+stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might 
+be collected, and I concentrated my attention with 
+careful subtlety to this end.
+
+
+
+Conversation Galante
+
+I observe: "Our sentimental friend the moon!
+Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
+It may be Prester John's balloon
+Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
+To light poor travellers to their distress."
+  She then: "How you digress!"
+
+And I then: "Some one frames upon the keys
+That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
+The night and moonshine; music which we seize
+To body forth our vacuity."
+  She then: "Does this refer to me?"
+  "Oh no, it is I who am inane."
+
+"You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
+The eternal enemy of the absolute,
+Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
+With your aid indifferent and imperious
+At a stroke our mad poetics to confute--"
+  And--"Are we then so serious?"
+ 
+
+
+La Figlia Che Piange
+
+  O quam te memorem Virgo ...
+
+
+Stand on the highest pavement of the stair--
+Lean on a garden urn--
+Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair--
+Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise--
+Fling them to the ground and turn
+With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
+But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
+
+So I would have had him leave,
+So I would have had her stand and grieve,
+So he would have left
+As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
+As the mind deserts the body it has used.
+I should find
+Some way incomparably light and deft,
+Some way we both should understand,
+Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
+
+She turned away, but with the autumn weather
+Compelled my imagination many days,
+Many days and many hours:
+Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
+And I wonder how they should have been together!
+I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
+Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
+The troubled midnight and the noon's repose.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Poems, by T. S. Eliot
+
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