THE WASTE LAND – T. S. ELIOT (1922)
‘Nam
sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi
pueri dicerent:……………; respondebat illa: ………..’
For
Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro.
I. THE
BURIAL OF THE DEAD
April
is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs
out of the dead land, mixing
Memory
and desire, stirring
Dull
roots with spring rain.
Winter
kept us warm, covering
Earth
in forgetful snow, feeding
A
little life with dried tubers.
Summer
surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a
shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And
went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10
And
drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar
keine Russin, stamm’aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And
when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My
cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I
was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie,
hold on tight. And down we went.
In the
mountains, there you feel free.
I read,
much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What
are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of
this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You
cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap
of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the
dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the
dry stone no sound of water. Only
There
is shadow under this red rock
(Come
in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I
will show you something different from either
Your
shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your
shadow at evening rising to meet you
I will
show you fear in a handful of dust. 30
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
‘You
gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They
called me the hyacinth girl.’
— Yet when
we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your
arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak,
and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living
nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40
Looking
into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’und leer das Meer.
Madame
Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Has a
bad cold, nevertheless
Is known
to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a
wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your
card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those
are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is
Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The
lady of situations. 50
Here is
the man with three staves, and here the Wheel
And
here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which
is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I
am forbidden to see. I do not find
The
Hanged man. Fear death by water.
I see
crowds of people, walking round in ring.
Thank
you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell
her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must
be so careful these days.
Unreal
city, 60
Under
the brown fog of winter dawn,
A crowd
flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had
not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs,
short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And
each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed
up the hill and down King William Street,
To
where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a
dead sound on the final stroke of mine.
There I
saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: ‘Stetson!’
‘You
who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 70
‘That
corpse you planted last year in your garden,
‘Has it
begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
‘Or has
the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
‘Oh
keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
‘Or
with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
‘You!
Hypocrite lecteur!— Mon semlable, — mon fère!’
II. A
GAME OF CHESS
The
Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed
on the marble, where the glass
Held up
by standards wrought with fruited vines
From
which a golden Cupidon peeped out 80
(Another
hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled
the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting
light upon the table as
The
glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From
satin cases poured in rich profusion.
In
vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered,
lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent,
powdered, or liquid — trouble, confused
And
drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That
freshened from the window, these ascended 90
In
fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung
their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring
the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge
sea-wood fed with copper
Burned
green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which
sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above
the antique mantel was displayed
As
though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The
change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So
rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100
Filled
all the desert with inviolable voice
And
still she cried, and still the world pursues,
‘Jug
Jug’ to dirty ears
And
other withered stumps of time
Were
told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned
out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps
shuffled on the stair.
Under
the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread
out in fiery points
Glowed
into words, then would be savagely still. 110
‘My
nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
‘Speak
to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
‘What
are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
‘I
never know what you are thinking. Think,’
I think
we are in rats’ alley
Where
the dead men lost their bones.
‘What
is that noise?’
The wind under the door.
‘What
is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’
Nothing again nothing. 120
‘Do
‘You
know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
‘Nothing?’
I
remember
Those
are pearls that were his eyes.
‘Are
you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’
But
O O O O
that Shakespeherian Rag —
It’s so
elegant
So
intelligent 130
‘What
shall I do now? What shall I do?’
‘I
shall rush out as I am, and walk the stret
‘With
my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
‘What
shall we ever do?’
The hot
water at ten.
And it
it rains, a closed car at four.
And we
shall play a game of chess,
Pressing
lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When
Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I
didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, 140
HURRY
UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
Now Albert’s
coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll
want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get
yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You
have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He
said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no
more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s
been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if
you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. 150
Oh is
there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then
I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY
UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
If you don’t like it you can get on with
it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for
lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look
so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long
face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off,
she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died
of young George.) 160
The chemist said it would be all right,
but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone,
there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want
children?
HURRY
UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they
had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the
beauty of it hot—
HURRY
UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
HURRY
UP PLEASE IT’S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May.
Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight, Goonight. 170
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet
ladies, good night, good night.
III.
THE FIRE SERMON
The river’s
tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch
and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses
the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet
Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The
river bear no empty bottles, sandwitch papers,
Silk
handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or
other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And
their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors — 180
Departed,
have left no addresses.
By the
waters of Leman I sat down and wept…
Sweet
Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet
Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at
my back in a cold blast I hear
The
rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A rat
crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging
its slimy belly on the bank
While I
was fishing in the dull canal
On a
winter evening round behind the gashouse 190
Musing
upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on
the king my father’s death before him.
White
bodies naked on the low damp ground
And
bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled
by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But at
my back from time to time I hear
The
sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney
to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the
moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on
her daughter 200
They
was their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d’enfant, chantant
dans coupole!
Twit
twit twit
Jug jug
jug jug jug
So
rudely forc’d.
Tereu
Unreal
City
Under
the brown fog of winter noon
Mr.
Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven,
with a pocket full of currants 210
C.i.f.
London: documents at sight,
Asked
me in demotic French
To
luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed
by a weekend at the Metropole.
At the
violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn
upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a
taxi throbbing waiting,
I
Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man
with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the
violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220
Homeward,
and brings the sailor home from sea,
The
typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her
stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of
the window perilously spread
Her
drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the
divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings,
slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I
Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived
the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too
awaited the expected guest. 230
He, the
young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small
house agent’s clerk, with one hold stare,
One of
the low on whom assurance sits
As a
silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The
time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The
meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours
to engage her in caresses
Which
still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed
and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring
hands encounter no defence; 240
His
vanity requires no response,
Ad
makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I
Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted
on this same divan or bed;
I who
have sat by Thebes below the wall
And
walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows
one final patronizing kiss,
And
gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit….
She
turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly
aware of her departed in the lover; 250
Her
brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
‘Well
now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’
When
lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces
about her room again, alone,
She
smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And
puts a record on the gramophone.
‘This
music crept by me upon the waters’
And
along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City
city, I can sometimes hear
Beside
a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260
The
pleasant whining of a mandolin
And a
clatter and a chatter from within
Where
fishmen lounge at noon: Where the walls
Of
Margnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable
splendour of Ionian white and gold.
The
river sweats
Oil
and tar
The
barges drift
With
the turning tide
Red
sails 270
Wide
To
leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The
barges wash
Drifting
logs
Down
Greenwich reach
Past
the isle of Dogs.
Weialala
leia
Wallala
leialala
Elizabeth
and Leicester
Boating
oars 280
The
stern was formed
The
gilded shell
Red
and gold
The
brisk swell
Rippled
both shores
Southwest
wind
Carried
down stream
The
peal of bells
White
towers
Weialala
leia 290
Wallala
leialala
‘Trams
and dusty trees.
Highbury
bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid
me. By richmend I raised my knees
Supine
on the floor of a narrow canoe.’
‘My
feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under
my feet. After the event
He
wept. He promised “a new start”.
I
made no comment. What should I resent?’
‘On
Margate Sands. 300
I
can connect
Nothing
with nothing.
The
broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My
people humble people who expect
Nothing.’
la la
To Carthage then I came
Burningburning burning burning
O Lord thou pluckest me out
O
Lord thou pluckest 310
burning
IV. DEATH
BY WATER
Phlebas
the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot
the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the
profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked
his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He
passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering
the whirlpool.
Gentile
or Jew
O you
who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320
Consider
Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
V. WHAT
THE THUNDER SAID
After
the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After
the frosty silence in the gardens
After
the agony in stony places
The
shouting and the crying
Prison
and palace and reverberation
Of
thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who
was living is now dead
We who
were living are now dying
With a
little patience 330
Here is
no water but only rock
Rock
and no water and the sandy road
The
road winding above among the mountains
Which
are mountains of rock without water
If
there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst
the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat
is dry and feet are in the sand
If
there were only water amongst the rock
Dead
mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here
one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340
There is
not even silence in the mountains
But dry
sterile thunder without rain
There
is not even solitude in the mountains
But red
sullen faces sneer and snarl
From
doors of mudcracked houses
If there were water
And
no rock
If
there were rock
And
also water
And
water
A
spring
A
pool among the rock 350
If
there were the sound of water only
Not
the cicada
And
dry grass singing
But
sound of water over a rock
Where
the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip
drop drip drop drop drop drop
But
there is no water
Who is
the third who walks always beside you?
When I
count, there are only you and I together 360
But
when I look ahead up the white road
There
is always another one walking beside you
Gliding
wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do
not know whether a man or a woman
—But
who is that on the other side of you?
What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only 370
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal
A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings 380
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass in singing
Over the rumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one. 390
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
DA 400
Datta: what have we
given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudennce can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
DA 410
Dayadhavam: I have heard the
key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
Damyata: the boat
responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded 420
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands
I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I sat least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling doen
Poi s’ascose nel focl
che gli affina
Quando fiam uti
chelidon — O swallow swallow
Le Prince
d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins 430
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih shantih shantih
*****