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    Selected Poems
    Selected Poems
    Selected Poems
    Ebook109 pages1 hour

    Selected Poems

    By T. S. Eliot

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    About this ebook

    Chosen by Eliot himself, the poems in this volume represent the poet’s most important work before Four Quartets. Included here is some of the most celebrated verse in modern literature—“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” “Gerontion,” “The Waste Land,” “The Hollow Men,” and “Ash Wednesday”—as well as many other fine selections from Eliot’s early work.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateMar 4, 2014
    ISBN9780547544731
    Selected Poems
    Author

    T. S. Eliot

    THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT was born in St Louis, Missouri, in 1888. He moved to England in 1914 and published his first book of poems in 1917. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1948. Eliot died in 1965.

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    • 4/5
      I have always been fond of Edna St. Vincent Millay's sonnets. It all started with Love Is Not All one evening whilst looking for something to read before going to bed. I knew then I had to seek more of her works. This sonnet is not included in this collection however but the ones that are have strengthened that fondness by a mile. To discover she was openly bisexual also sheds a new light upon her works; subtly some of them hints on same-sex relationships. Regrettably, I find rhyming poetry a little tiring these days that amidst her playfulness, creativity, sarcasm, humour, and wit — whilst fastening a lot of themes within the breaks and spaces between her vivid words enough to draw a memory or evoke a sense of a thousand emotions be it the departure of autumn, death at your fingertips ("Mine is a body that should die at sea! And have for a grave, instead of a grave Six feet deep and the length of me, All the water that is under the wave!") or the painful warfare of longing ("Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea;" and "My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing, Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.") and a heartbreak ("My heart is what it was before, A house where people come and go; But it is winter with your love, The Sashes are beset with snow." and "And what are you that, wanting you, I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days With weeping for your sake?") — has turned off my enjoyment overall. Despite this personal gripe of mine there's no question hers are one of the best rhyming poetry I've read so far in comparison to W.H. Auden's whose poetry collection I haven't finished yet due to them being twice as taxing although Funeral Blues and O Tell Me The Truth About Love (funny little thing how this one involves nose-picking) have always been my personal favourites.For all of us ageing:"Was it for this I uttered prayers,And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,That now, domestic as a plate,I should retire at half-past eight?"— GROWN-UPAs a side note, I dearly liked these: Indifference, Time does not bring relief; you all have lied, If I should learn, in some quite casual way, The Dream, I shall forget you presently, my dear, MacDougal Street, Passer Mortuus Est, Travel, Exiled, Grown-up, Recuerdo, Thursday, Ebb, We all talk of taxes, and I call you friend, Alms, and I know I am but summer to your heart.

    Book preview

    Selected Poems - T. S. Eliot

    The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

    S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse

    a persona che mai tornasse al mondo,

    questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.

    Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo

    non tornò vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,

    senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

    Let us go then, you and I,

    When the evening is spread out against the sky

    Like a patient etherised upon a table;

    Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

    The muttering retreats

    Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

    And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

    Streets that follow like a tedious argument

    Of insidious intent

    To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .

    Oh, do not ask, What is it?

    Let us go and make our visit.

    In the room the women come and go

    Talking of Michelangelo.

    The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

    The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

    Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

    Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

    Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

    Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

    And seeing that it was a soft October night,

    Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

    And indeed there will be time

    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

    Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

    There will be time, there will be time

    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

    There will be time to murder and create,

    And time for all the works and days of hands

    That lift and drop a question on your plate;

    Time for you and time for me,

    And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

    And for a hundred visions and revisions,

    Before the taking of a toast and tea.

    In the room the women come and go

    Talking of Michelangelo.

    And indeed there will be time

    To wonder, Do I dare? and, Do I dare?

    Time to turn back and descend the stair,

    With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—

    [They will say: How his hair is growing thin!]

    My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

    My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

    [They will say: But how his arms and legs are thin!]

    Do I dare

    Disturb the universe?

    In a minute there is time

    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

    For I have known them all already, known them all—

    Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

    I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

    I know the voices dying with a dying fall

    Beneath the music from a farther room.

    So how should I presume?

    And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

    The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

    And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

    When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

    Then how should I begin

    To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

    And how should I presume?

    And I have known the arms already, known them all—

    Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

    [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

    Is it perfume from a dress

    That makes me so digress?

    Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

    And should I then presume?

    And how should I begin?

    * * * *

    Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

    And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

    Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

    I should have been a pair of ragged claws

    Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

    * * * *

    And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

    Smoothed by long fingers,

    Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,

    Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

    Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

    Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

    But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

    Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,

    I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

    I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

    And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

    And in short, I was afraid.

    And would it have been worth it, after all,

    After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

    Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

    Would it have been worth while,

    To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

    To have squeezed the universe into a ball

    To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

    To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

    Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—

    If one, settling a pillow by her head,

    Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.

    That is not it, at all."

    And would it have been worth it, after all,

    Would it have

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