Poetry T. S. Eliot (best e books to read .TXT) đ
- Author: T. S. Eliot
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Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
âMy nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
âSpeak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
âWhat are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
âI never know what you are thinking. Think.â
I think we are in ratsâ alley19
Where the dead men lost their bones.
âWhat is that noise?â
The wind under the door.20
âWhat is that noise now? What is the wind doing?â
Nothing again nothing.
âDo
âYou know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
âNothing?â
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
âAre you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?â
But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Ragâ â21
Itâs so elegant
So intelligent
âWhat shall I do now? What shall I do?â
âI shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
âWith my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
âWhat shall we ever do?â
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.22
When Lilâs husband got demobbed, I saidâ â
I didnât mince my words, I said to her myself,
Hurry up please itâs time
Now Albertâs coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
Heâll 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 canât bear to look at you.
And no more canât I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
Heâs been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you donât give it him, thereâs others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something oâ that, I said.
Then Iâll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
Hurry up please itâs time
If you donât like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you canât.
But if Albert makes off, it wonât be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I canât help it, she said, pulling a long face,
Itâs them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(Sheâs had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be all right, but Iâve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert wonât leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you donât want children?
Hurry up please itâs 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 hotâ â
Hurry up please itâs time
Hurry up please itâs time
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
The riverâs 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.23
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and weptâ ââ âŠ
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
Musing upon the king my brotherâs wreck
And on the king my fatherâs death before him.24
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the ratâs foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear25
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring26
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter27
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix dâenfants, chantant dans la coupole!28
Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forcâd.
Tereu
Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants29
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,30
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,31
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 sunâs 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 restâ â
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agentâs clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the
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