Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.īurned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,

In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, That freshened from the window, these ascended Unguent, powdered, or liquid-troubled, confusedĪnd drowned the sense in odors stirred by the air Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,įrom satin cases poured in rich profusion. Held up by standards wrought with fruited vinesĭoubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra A Game of Chess The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable!-mon frère!' Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? That corpse you planted last year in your garden, You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, 'Stetson! With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,Īnd each man fixed his eyes before his feet,įlowed up the hill and down King William Street I had not thought death had undone so many. Equitone,Ī crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Which is blank, is something that he carries on his back, Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,Īnd here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor. Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden, 'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago ' I will show you fear in a handful of dust.įrisch weht der Wind* Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you Your shadow at morning striding behind you (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),Īnd I will show you something different from either You cannot say, or guess, for you know onlyĪ heap of broken images, where the sun beats,Īnd the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,Īnd the dry stone no sound of water. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow I read, much of the night, and go south in winter. And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.īin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.* My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee* With a shower of rain we stopped in the colonnadeĪnd went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten*,

The Burial of the Dead APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding It translates roughly as 'I saw with my own eyes the Sibyl at Cumae hanging in a cage, and when the boys said to her 'Sibyl, what do you want?' that one replied 'I want to die'.

Ts eliot the wasteland