The Waste Land

Uploaded by The16thCavern on 02.02.2013

The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot
April is the cruellest 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,
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
archduke'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, 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.
Od' 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 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 nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying
"Stetson! "You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
"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 semblable, - mon frere!"
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 (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 - troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended 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 carved 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
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.
"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. "Do
"You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
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 to-morrow? "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 mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS 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. 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 ITS 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.)
The chemist said it would be alright, 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
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 -
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies,
good night, good night.
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 testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
Line ALRIGHT. This spelling occurs also in the Hogarth Press edition - Editor.
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
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 They wash their feet in soda 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 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
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.
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 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 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 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,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.
The river sweats Oil and tar
The barges drift With the turning tide
Red sails 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 Beating oars
The stern was formed A gilded shell
Red and gold The brisk swell
Rippled both shores Southwest wind
Carried down stream The peal of bells
White towers Weialala leia
Wallala leialala
"Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid 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 humble 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
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, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and
tall as you.
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
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 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 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 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
What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet
air Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London
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
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 is singing
Over the tumbled 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. 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
Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence 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
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, aetherial 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
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands
I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid 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 ceu chelidon - O swallow swallow Le Prince d'Aquitaine a 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
End of The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot