Friday, September 15, 2017

The Wasteland (Part III) by T.S. Eliot

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 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 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 

burning 

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