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    The Waste Land
    The Waste Land
    The Waste Land
    Ebook84 pages56 minutes

    The Waste Land

    By T. S. Eliot

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    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.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSkyline
    Release dateNov 30, 2017
    ISBN9788827525203
    Author

    T. S. Eliot

    T.S. Eliot (1888-1965) was a British poet of American descent. Born in St. Louis, Missouri to a prominent family from Boston, Eliot was raised in a religious and intellectual household. Childhood ailments left Eliot isolated for much of his youth, encouraging his interest in literature. At the age of ten, he entered a preparatory school where he studied Latin, Ancient Greek, French, and German. During this time, he also began writing poetry. From 1906 to 1909, he studied at Harvard University, earning a Master of Arts in English literature and introducing himself to the poetry of the French Symbolists. Over the next several years, he studied Indian philosophy and Sanskrit at the Harvard Graduate School before attending Oxford on a scholarship to Merton College. Tiring of academic life, however, he abandoned his studies and moved to London, where he met the poet Ezra Pound. With Pound’s encouragement and editing, Eliot published such poems as “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (1915) and “The Waste Land” (1922), works that earned him a reputation as one of the twentieth century’s leading poets and a major figure in literary Modernism. Living in England with his wife Vivienne—from whom he would separate in 1932—Eliot worked as a prominent publisher for Faber and Faber, working with such poets as W.H. Auden and Ted Hughes. He converted to Anglicanism in 1927, an event that inspired his poem “Ash-Wednesday” (1930) and led to the composition of his masterpiece Four Quartets (1943). Eliot was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1948.

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      Book preview

      The Waste Land - T. S. Eliot

      Piange

      The Waste Land

      I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

      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, 10

      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, 20

      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. 30

      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, 40

      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. 50

      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, 60

      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! 70

      "That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

      "Has it begun

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