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diff --git a/old/tsepm11.txt b/old/tsepm11.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..07e4bf2 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tsepm11.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1567 @@ +******The Project Gutenberg Etext of Poems, by T. S. Eliot****** +#3 in our series by T. S. Eliot + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. +Project Gutenberg surfs with a modem donated by Supra. + + +Poems + +by T. S. 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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 + |