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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 2,
and went on in sunlight, into the hofgarten,
and drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
3 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 4 rubbish? son of man,
you cannot say, or guess, for you know only
a heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
and the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
and the dry stone no sound of water. only
there is shadow under this red rock,
(come in under the shadow of this red rock),
and i will show you something different from either
your shadow at morning striding behind you
or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
i will show you fear in a handful of dust.
frisch weht der wind
der heimat zu
mein irisch kind
wo weilest du?
'you gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'they called me the hyacinth girl.'
-yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
your arms full, and your hair wet, i could not
speak, and my eyes failed, i was neither
living nor dead, and i knew nothing,
looking into the heart of light, the silence.
oed' und leer das meer.
madame sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
had a bad cold, nevertheless
is known to be the wisest woman in europe,
with a wicked pack of cards. here, said she,
is your card, the drowned phoenician sailor,
(those are pearls that were his eyes. look!)
here is belladonna, the lady of the rocks, the lady of situations.
here is the man with three staves, and here the wheel,
and here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
which i am forbidden to see. i do not find
the hanged man. fear death by water.
i see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
thank you. if you see dear mrs. equitone,
tell her i bring the horoscope myself:
one must be so careful these days.
unreal city,
under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
a crowd flowed over london bridge, so many,
i had not thought death had 5 so many.
sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
and each man 6 his eyes before his feet.
flowed up the hill and down king william street,
to where saint mary woolnoth kept the hours
with a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
there i saw one i knew, and stopped him, crying: 'stetson!
'you who were with me in the ships at mylae!
'that 7 you planted last year in your garden,
'has it begun to 8? will it bloom this year?
'or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'o keep the dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'you! hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable, - mon frère!'
ii. a game of chess
the chair she sat in, like a 9 throne,
glowed on the marble, where the glass
held up by standards 10 with fruited vines
from which a golden cupidon peeped out
(another hid his eyes behind his wing)
doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
reflecting light upon the table as
the glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
from satin cases poured in rich 11.
in vials of ivory and coloured glass
14, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused
and drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
that freshened from the window, these 15
in 16 the prolonged candle-flames,
flung their smoke into the laquearia,
stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
huge sea-wood fed with 17
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 18 scene
the change of philomel, by the barbarous king
so rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
filled all the desert with inviolable voice
and still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'19 jug' to dirty ears.
were told upon the walls; staring forms
leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
footsteps 22 on the stair.
under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
spread out in 23 points
glowed into words, then would be 24 still.
'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 it that noise?'
the wind under the door.
'what is that noise now? what is the wind doing?'
nothing again nothing.
'do
'you know nothing? do you see nothing? do you remember
'nothing?'
i remember
those are pearls that were his eyes.
'are you alive, or not? is there nothing in your head?'
but
o o o o that shakespeherian rag -
it's so elegant
so intelligent
'what shall i do now? what shall i do?'
'i shall rush out as i am, and walk the street
'with my hair down, so. what shall we do tomorrow?
'what shall we ever do?'
the hot water at ten.
and if it rains, a closed car at four.
and we shall play a game of chess,
pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
when lil's husband got demobbed, i said -
i didn't 25 my words, i said to her myself,
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 herself 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 for four years, he wants a good time,
and if you don't give it him, there's others will, i said.
oh is there, she said. something o' that, i said.
then i'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
hurry up please it's time
if you don't like it you can get on with it, i said.
others can pick and choose if you can't.
but if albert makes off, it won't be for a lack of telling.
you ought to be ashamed, i said, to look so antique.
(and her only thirty-one.)
i can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
it's them pills i took, to bring it off, she said.
(she's had five already, and nearly died of young george.)
the chemist said it would be all right, but i've never been the same.
you are a proper fool, i said.
well, if albert won't leave you alone, there it is, i said,
what you get married for if you don't want children?
hurry up please it's time
well, that sunday albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
and they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -
hurry up please it's time
hurry up please it's time
goonight bill. goonight lou. goonight may. goonight.
ta ta. goonight. goonight.
good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
iii. the fire sermon
the river's tent is broken; the last fingers of leaf
clutch and sink into the wet bank. the wind
crosses the brown land, unheard. the nymphs are departed.
sweet thames, run softly, till i end my song.
the river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
or other 27 of summer nights. the nymphs are departed.
and their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
departed, have left no addresses.
by the waters of leman i sat down and wept ...
sweet thames, run softly till i end my song,
sweet thames, run softly, for i speak not loud or long.
but at my back in a cold blast i hear
a rat crept softly through the vegetation
dragging its slimy 30 on the bank
while i was fishing in the dull canal
on a winter evening round behind the gashouse
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,
33 by the rat's foot only, year to year.
but at my back from time to time i hear
the sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
sweeney to mrs. porter in the spring.
o the moon shone bright on mrs. porter
and on her daughter
they wash their feet in 34 water
et o ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
twit twit twit
jug jug jug jug jug jug
so rudely forc'd.
tereu
unreal city
under the brown fog of a winter noon
mr. eugenides, the smyrna merchant
unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
c.i.f. london: documents at sight,
asked me in 35 french
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 38 waiting,
i tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
at the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
the typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
her stove, and lays out food in tins.
out of the window 39 spread
her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
on the 40 are piled (at night her bed)
stockings, 41, camisoles, and stays.
i tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
perceived the scene, and 42 the rest -
i too awaited the expected guest.
he, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
a small house agent's 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 43, as he guesses,
the meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
endeavours to engage her in 44
which are still unreproved, if undesired.
flushed and 45, he assaults at once;
exploring hands encounter no defence;
his vanity requires no response,
and makes a welcome of 46.
(and i tiresias have foresuffered all
47 on this same divan or bed;
i who have sat by thebes below the wall
and walked among the lowest of the dead.)
48 one final patronising kiss,
and gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...
she turns and looks a moment in the glass,
hardly aware of her departed lover;
her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'well now that's done: and i'm glad it's over.'
when lovely woman stoops to 49 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 50, up queen victoria street.
o city city, i can sometimes hear
beside a public bar in lower thames street,
the pleasant 51 of a mandoline
where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
of magnus 54 hold
55 splendour of ionian white and gold.
the river sweats
oil and 1
the 56 drift
with the turning tide
red sails
wide
to 57, swing on the heavy spar.
the barges wash
drifting logs
down greenwich reach
past the 58 of dogs.
weialala leia
wallala leialala
elizabeth and leicester
beating 59
the stern was formed
a 60 shell
red and gold
the brisk 61
62 both shores
southwest wind
carried down stream
the 63 of bells
white towers
weialala leia
wallala leialala
'trams and dusty trees.
highbury bore me. richmond and kew
64 me. by richmond i raised my knees
supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'
'my feet are at moorgate and my heart
under my feet. after the event
he wept. he promised "a new start."
i made no comment. what should i resent?'
'on margate sands.
i can connect
nothing with nothing.
the broken fingernails of dirty hands.
my people 65 people who expect
nothing.'
la la
to carthage then i came
burning burning burning burning
o lord thou pluckest me out
o lord thou pluckest
burning
iv. death by water
phlebas the phoenician, a fortnight dead,
forgot the cry of 66, 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 passes the stages of his age and youth
entering the whirlpool.
gentile or jew
o you who turn the wheel and look windward,
consider phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
v. what the thunder said
after the torchlight red on sweaty faces
after the frosty silence in the gardens
after the agony in stony places
the shouting and the crying
prison and palace and 67
of thunder of spring over distant mountains
he who was living is now dead
we who were living are now dying
with a little patience
here is no water but only rock
rock and no water and the sandy road
the road 68 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 not lie nor sit
there is not even silence in the mountains
but dry 69 thunder without rain
there is not even 70 in the mountains
from doors of mudcracked houses
if there were water
and no rock
if there were rock
and also water
and water
a spring
a pool among the rock
if there were the sound of water only
not the cicada
and dry grass singing
but sound of water over a rock
where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
but there is no water
who is the third who walks always beside you?
when i count, there are only you and i together
but when i look ahead up the white road
there is always another one walking beside you
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
who are those hooded 80 swarming
over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
ringed by the flat horizon only
what is the city over the mountains
cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
falling towers
jerusalem athens alexandria
vienna london
unreal
a woman drew her long black hair out tight
and bats with baby faces in the violet light
whistled, and beat their wings
and crawled head downward down a blackened wall
and upside down in air were towers
83 reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
in this decayed hole among the mountains
in the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
over the tumbled graves, about the 86
there is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
it has no windows, and the door swings,
dry bones can harm no one.
only a cock stood on the rooftree
co co rico co co rico
in a flash of lightning. then a damp 87
bringing rain
ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
waited for rain, while the black clouds
gathered far distant, over himavant.
the jungle 88, humped in silence.
then 89 the thunder
da
datta: what have we given?
my friend, blood shaking my heart
the awful daring of a moment's surrender
by this, and this only, we have existed
which is not to be found in our 92
or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
or under seals broken by the lean 93
in our empty rooms
da
dayadhvam: i have heard the key
turn in the door once and turn once only
we think of the key, each in his prison
thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
only at nightfall, aethereal 94
revive for a moment a broken coriolanus
da
damyata: the boat responded
the sea was calm, your heart would have responded
gaily, when invited, beating obedient
to controlling hands
i sat upon the shore
fishing, with the 96 plain behind me
shall i at least set my lands in order?
london bridge is falling down falling down falling down
poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
quando fiam uti chelidon - o swallow swallow
le prince d'aquitaine à la tour abolie
these fragments i have shored against my ruins
why then ile fit you. hieronymo's mad againe.
datta. dayadhvam. damyata.
shantih shantih shantih
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