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British Literature

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by

Vincent Baaijens

on 30 November 2016

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Transcript of British Literature

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Old-English Literature
1066
around 670: first conserved text - Cædmon's Hymn
Early Britisch culture:

- oral tradition
- epic poems (Beowulf)
- Norse/Iclandic influences
- adaptations of war 'poems'
(Vikings/Germans)

Form:
Germans: alliteration/repetition of consonants
(to better remember the tales)
1066 - Battle of Hastings

-Edward the Confessor dies
-power to Duke William II of Normandy (Fr)
-Harold II (Eng) took the power (discussion!)
-William did not accept this
-Harold II had to go north (York) to defeat the Vikings + his brother (Tostig)
-William landed sounth (Pevensy) without any contestance
-Battle of Hastings (Battle)
-End of Anglo-Saxisch England
Middle-English
"Dream of the Rood" - Ruthwell Cross
- Judith (also in the bible)

Krist wæs on rodi. Hweþræ'
þer fusæ fearran kwomu
æþþilæ til anum.

"Christ was on the cross. Yet
the brave came there from afar
to their lord."
Epic poem: Beowulf
- Most famous work in Old-English
- Beowulf, Grendel, Grendel's mother, dragon
- Nowell Codex (around 1700) Lawrence Nowell (owner in 16th century)
- a.o.: Beowulf, Letters from Alexander to Aristotle, Judith, Wonders of the Far East, The Life of Saint Christopher.
Franks' Casket

-Augustus Franks (discoverer in 19th century)
-Christian (wise from the east)
-Roman history (emperor Titus)
-Roman mythology (Romulus & Remus)
-German mythology (Wieland the Smith)
History of the British Literature
After 1066...

- Great diversity in literature. (Wales: Gerald of Wales)
- Influence from France - Chanson de Geste (also epic)
- First chronical in rhyme - Geoffrey Gaimar
- First eye-witness report in history - Jordan Fantosme
- First scientific literature - Philippe de Thaun
- Hagiografie remained popular
And!
- Arthurian Romance...
King Arthur

- Existence?
- King in 5th and 6th century
- Y Gododdin - Aneirin
- Geoffrey of Monmouth's 'Historia Regum Britanniae'
- Welsh: dux bellorum (leader in battle)
- Middle Ages: amerauder (ruler)
- The story...
Uther + Merlijn
Sword
Excalibur
Guinevere
Round table + Lancelot
Mordred
Middle-English

- 1066 till end 15th century
- basis for current-day English
- 4 cases (old-English had 5, English nowadays has 2)
- pronunciation differed from script (old-English - spoken language)
- English Jewish Literature - Berechiah ben Natronai ha-Nakdan
(Edict of Expulsion 1290-1656)
- most importan writer: Geoffrey Chaucer
- William Caxton - printing press in England - 1476
St. Erkenwald Manuscript, lines 257-264:
Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1343 - 1400)

- 'father of the English literature'
- autor, poet, soldiet, courtean,
'forester', diplomat en social servant
- confediant of Edward III,
Richard II
and Hendrik IV
- put Middle-English next to Latin and French as language of literature
- wrote about: philosophy, love (for one another and God) and:
- Canterbury Tales, frame story about different characters/traits.
- Grave in Westminster Abbey - Poet's Corner...wasn't called that then!
Canterbury Tales

- prologue + Thomas Becket
- frame story - not one theme
- many genres: fabliau, fabel, romance
- 83 manuscripts (25 once complete, 28 too fragmented, 30 good)
- prioress, monk, pardoner, shipman, miller, carpenter, reeve, squire, yeoman and a knight
- Harry Bailey - innkeeper - contest
- Never finished the story...
1475 - Flen Flyys (anonymous)

- satirical poem
- code
- "fuccant"?
(English + Latin)
Flen, flyys, and freris
- Fleas, flies and friars

Non sunt in cœli quia
- they [the friars] are not in heaven, since
gxddbov xxkxzt pg ifmk.
- fvccant [a fake Latin form] vvivys of heli

Or::
They are not in heaven because they fuck wives of Ely.
Early Modern English

- James VI - King of Scots
- Union of Crowns 1603
- Engelse Renaissance
- Thomas Wyatt - sonnet
- Edmund Spenser - The Faerie Queene (6 books, allegory)
- Spenserian stanza - 9 lines, 8 iambic pentameters, 1 alexandrine (6-feet jambe)
- Philip Sidney - Thy necessity is yet greater than mine (Zutphen!)
English Renaissance Theatre

- Early Modern Theatre
- London
- from: 1567 "The Red Lion"
- till: 2th September 1642: closure of the theatres (puritans)
- 18-year lockdown! Until the 'Restoration'
- Not many texts (600 in total)
- Genres: historical, tragedy, comedy (city-comedy),
tragi-comedy and masquerade
- Ben Johnson, Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Kyd
- and...
Shakespeare (Stratford-upon-Avon, 23 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 (OS))

- Anne Hathaway (Suzanne, Hamnet (11), Judith)
- Lord Chamberlain's Men --> King's Men
- The Theatre, The Curtain, The Swan, THE GLOBE

- comical, tragedies, historical works, romances
- tragedies: Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, MacBeth
- does not chose a side (e.g. King Lear, Hamlet)
- monologues with (cliché?) one-liners
- romances: not as much, but: Romeo & Juliet






Extra:
- Titus Andronicus (tragedy!)
- "upstart crow beautified with our feathers"
- "Tygers hart wrapt in a Players hyde" (Henry VI pt.3)
- "Shake-scene"
1550 - 1625

- The King James Bible (1604-1611)
- Sir Francis Bacon - New Atlantis - "Knowledge is Power".
- Francis Godwin - The Man in the Moone (sf)
- Thomas Middleton - The Revenger's Tragedy - 'illegitimacy in fiction'
- John Milton - Paradise Lost - Adam & Eva in 10.000 rhyming lines
- En: Areopagitica: A speech of Mr. John Milton for the Liberty of
Unlicensed Printing to the Parliament of England
Renaissance
Neoclassical
Romantic
Victorian
Modernism
Post Modernism
as it hath beene sundry times acted by the Kings Majesties servants
Neo-Classical Period - Restoration (1625-1689)

- Diarists --> John Evelyn (over reizen)
--> Samuel Pepys (in geheimschrift 1660-1669)
- A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates - Captain Charles Johnson (Daniel Defoe?)
Met: Blackbeard, Calico Jack Rackham --> Jolly Rodger

- Alexander Pope - Formal - Heroic Couplet - Masculine Rhyme
- John Dryden - tragic drama - heroic plays! (The Conquest of Granada)
- William Hogarth - A Harlot's Progress (Moll Hackabout)
1750-1798 - Roots of Romantic Period

- Jonathan Swift - Gulliver's Travels
- Daniel Defoe - Robinson Crusoe

- Edward Cave - The Gentleman's Magazine

- John Newbery - The History of the Little Goody Two-Shoes
(Margery Meanwell)

- Horace Walpole - The Castle of Otranto
- Ann Radcliffe - The Mysteries of Udolpho
1798-1837 - Romantic Period

- Jane Austen (Pride and Prejudice Sense & Sensibility)

- Walter Scott - Ivanhoe
- Mary Shelley - Frankenstein
- William Wordsworth & Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Lyrical Ballads
"Lake Poets"
- John Keats - praised only after his death for insight in poetry
- George Gordon Byron - politics
- Percy Shelley (man van) - atheist - banned from Oxford

Reading: poetry for the lower classes
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
"There is hardly one statement of Keats' about poetry which ... will not be found to be true, and what is more, true for greater and more mature poetry than anything Keats ever wrote"
A thing of beauty is a joy forever,
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness.
uit: Endymion: A Poetic Romance

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
uit: Ode on a Grecian Urn

Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art,
not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
Uit: Bright Star
Victorian Age (1837-1901)

- social novel / industrial novel
- London <--> countryside
- trilogies, but also series (e.g. Pickwick Papers)
- Charles Dickens (Oliver Twist, Christmas Carol, Great Expectations)
- Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights)
- William Makepeace Thackeray - Vanity Fair
- Elizabeth Gaskell - North and South
Victorian Age (1837-1901)

- realism
- George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) - Middlemarch
- Thomas Hardy (Victorian realist) - Far from the Madding Crowd
- Victor Hugo (fr) - banned to the Channel islands for 18 years - Les Misérables
(best British novel, written in French)

and: tragedies! but: proze, not poetry. Fiction, no play
- Short stories / literary magazines

- Fiction --> fantasy (George MacDonald, The Princess and the Goblin)
--> detective (Wilkie Collins, The Moonstone)
--> sensational (Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White)
- H.G. Wells (War of the Worlds , The Time Machine, The Invisible Man)
- penny dreadful, -horrible, -awful, -number, -blood (Sweeney Todd!)
- predecessor of modernist literature: Joseph Conrad (Polish immigrant) -
Heart of Darkness + Lord Jim - 'storyteller' - Charles Marlow
Victorian Age (1837-1901)

- Well known?
- Bram Stoker - Dracula
(inspired by Varney the Vampire (James Malcolm Rymer))
- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - Sherlock Holmes

- Literature for children
- Robert Louis Stevenson - Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
and: Treasure Island (schooner, black spot, parrot)
- Lewis Caroll - Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (surrealism)
- Beatrix Potter - The Tale of Peter Rabbit
- Anna Sewell - Black Beauty

-Victorian Poetry
- Lord Tennyson - greatest master of metrics + melancholia
- Robert Browning - dramatic monologue - My last Duchess

- symbolism + estheticism
- Oscar Wilde
Modernisme - 1901-1939

- Breaking with tradition
- Predecessor of absurdism (and post-modernism)
- James Joyce
- Vorticism - BLAST-magazine
First World War - 1914-1918

- war poets
- Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke, Isaac Rosenberg, Edmund Blunden and Siegfried Sassoon
Does It Matter?

Does it matter?-losing your legs?
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter?-losing you sight?
There’s such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter-those dreams in the pit?
You can drink and forget and be gald,
And people won't say that you’re mad;
For they know that you've fought for your country,
And no one will worry a bit.


- Siegfried Sassoon
How to Die


Dark clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that returns;
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
And on his lips a whispered name.

You'd think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they've been taught the way to do it
Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
With due regard for decent taste.

- Siegfried Sassoon
Poetry

- Thomas Hardy (19th c. novels, 20th c. poems)
- Gerald Manley Hopkins (published by Robert Bridges)
sprung rhythm + new combinations of words
- William Butler Yeats - Nobelprize for literature (1923)
traditional style with lots of symbolism and realism
- free verse
- T. S. Eliot - Nobelprize for literature (1948) (The Waste Land)

- Georgian Poetry
victorian vs. modernism
romanticism, sentimentality and hedonism vs. resent of beforementioned
- Rupert Brooke, John Masefield
- Edward Thomas (Poet's Corner)
Novels

- D.H. Lawrence - Sons and Lovers
- E.M. Forster - Room with a view / Howards End
socially critical
- James Joyce (Ireland) - Ulysses (and Fynnegans Wake, dream/special language)
Homerus - Odysseus
'One of the 100 best books in history' (1998 - Modern Library)
- Virginia Woolf - The Waves / A Room of ones own
feminist

- stream of consciousness (Joyce/Woolf) (Dorothy Richardson)
- Bloomsbury Group (Forster/Woolf)

- George Orwell - Animal Farm (1945) (satirical)
- Evelyn Waugh - Brideshead Revisited (1945) (theological)
- Aldous Huxley - Brave New World (dystopia)
Early 20th century literature

- Erskine Childers - The Riddle of the Sands 1903 - spy novel
- Emma Orczy - armchair detective (The old man in the corner)
- John Buchan / Leslie Charteris - adventure novels (gentlemen) - The Saint
- M.R James - Ghost stories

- Kenneth Grahame - Wind in the Willows
- Lord Baden Powell - Scouting for Boys
- A.A. Milne - Winnie-the-Pooh
- Mary Norton - The Borrowers
- Hugh Lofting - Dr Dolittle (character)
- Dodie Smith - 101 Dalmatians

- Agatha Christie (Golden Age of Detective Fiction) (twist ending)
- Inklings - fantasy
- J.R.R. Tolkien
- C.S. Lewis
2nd World War

- 'Where are the war poets?'
- Keith Douglas (1920-1944) - Alamein to Zemzem (biography)
- Alun Lewis (Welsh) (1915-1944) - All day it has rained (war poem)
- Sidney Keyes (1922-1943) - important poet, but... (110 poems)
- David Gascoyne (1916-2001) - surrealist (Requiem)
- Edith Sitwell (1887-1964) - Still Falls the Rain (London Blitz)
- Denton Welch (1915-1948) - Portrets of countryside (ill)

Novels
- H.E. Bates (1905-1974) - Fair Stood the Wind for France (pop)
- Evelyn Waugh - Put out more flags - Phoney War
After WW-II

Drama
- kitchen sink realism (drama) 1950-1960
opposite of the drawing room play
angry young men
social realism (+criticism)
John Osborne (playwright), Kingsley Amis (novelist, poet)
A Patriot For Me (1965) controverse
Kenneth Tynan (critic & writer) - 1st
Theatres Act 1968 - since 1737 allowed again
- radio plays (adaptions & originals)
Poetry
- modernism --> from personal to intellectual, the bigger picture
art of poetry is not free (free verse) but is in service of that which needs to be said objectivity is important
- still: T.S. Eliot, W.H. Auden, Dylan Thomas
- new: Philip Larkin, Ted Hughes, Seamus Heaney
The Hawk in the Rain (bundle)
- Small movement: Martian Poetry (absurdism) 1960-1970
Craig Raine, Christopher Reid, Martin Amis
- "The Movement" - 1945-1955 (anti-Romantic, non-experimental)
Kingsley Amis, Philip Larkin
- The British Poetry Revival - 1960-1970 (reaction on the Movement)
modernism
Roy Fisher, Gael Turnbull
happenings
and:
- Geoffrey Hill - 'being difficult is the most democratic, you are doing the audience
the honour of supposing they are intelligent human beings
Literature in the late 20th century (1/3)

- Spy novel:
Ian Fleming - James Bond 007
John le Carré - The Spy Who Came in from the Cold
- Thriller novel:
Frederick Forsyth - The Day of the Jackal
Cold war thriller: Peter George - Red Alert
- Adventure story:
Elleston Trevor - The Flight of the Phoenix
- War novel:
Alistair MacLean - The Guns of Navarone
nautical war novel: Patrick O'Brian - Master and Commander
- Crime novel:
Ruth Rendell
P.D. James
- Historical novel:
Nigel Tranter - The Bruce Trilogy & The Wallace
Literature in the late 20th century (2/3)

- science fiction novel:
Arthur C. Clarke - 2001: A Space Odyssey
(based on short stories; The Sentinel)
- New Wave SF-novelists: literary merit
Michael Moorcock, J.G. Ballard

- Children's Literature
* fantasy
Roald Dahl: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (1964)
The Witches (1983)
Matilda (1988)
J.K. Rowling: Harry Potter
* boarding school
Ronald Searle - St Trinian's (cartoons - series)
Jill Murphy - The Worst Witch
* fairy tales
Ruth Manning-Sanders - A Book of Giants
(with: Jack and the beanstake)
Literature in the late 20th century (3/3)

- fantasy & horror
Terry Pratchett - The Colour of Magic (1983)
Night Watch (2002)
Alan Moore - Watchmen
V for Vendetta
The League of XO Gentlemen
Douglas Adams - The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency
Clive Barker - The Hellbound Heart
Weaveworld
Abarat
Hellraiser
Hélas - Oscar Wilde


To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?
Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over on some boyish holiday
With idle songs for pipe and virelay,
Which do but mar the secret of the whole.
Surely there was a time I might have trod
The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance
Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God.
Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod
I did but touch the honey of romance—
And must I lose a soul's inheritance?

Ecclesiastical History of the English People by Bede







Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum
Thus came -- lo! -- England into Norman's hands,
And the Normans could not speak anything except their own speech,
And spoke French as they did at home, and their children did also teach,
So that high men of this land that of their blood come
Hold to all that speech that they took of them;
For unless a man knows French, men think little of him.


But low men hold to English and to their own speech yet.
I suppose there be none in all the countries of the world
That do not hold to their own speech, save for England alone,
But yet it is well for a man to know both,
For the more a man knows the more he is worth.

-Robert of Gloucester (1300)
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,
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.
Öd’ 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.

55



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.

65



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 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!

75



You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”










II. A GAME OF CHESS

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

80



(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;

85



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

90



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,

95



In which sad light a carvèd 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

100



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

105



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.

110







“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

115



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.

120



“Do





You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember





Nothing?”





I remember





Those are pearls that were his eyes.

125



“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

130







“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.

135



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,

140



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,

145



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.

150



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.

155



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.)

160



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 children?





HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME

165



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—





HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME





HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME





Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.

170



Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.





Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.










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.

175



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;

180



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

185



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.

190



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.

195



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

200



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.

205



Tereu









Unreal City





Under the brown fog of a winter noon





Mr Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant





Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants

210



C. i. f. London: documents at sight,





Asked me in demotic French





To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel





Followed by a week-end at the Metropole.









At the violet hour, when the eyes and back

215



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

220



Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,





The typist home at tea-time, 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,

225



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.

230



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,

235



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;

240



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

245



And walked among the lowest of the dead.)





Bestows one final patronizing kiss,





And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit…









She turns and looks a moment in the glass,





Hardly aware of her departed lover;

250



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,

255



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,

260



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.

265







The river sweats





Oil and tar





The barges drift





With the turning tide





Red sails

270



Wide





To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.





The barges wash





Drifting logs





Down Greenwich reach

275



Past the Isle of Dogs.





Weialala leia





Wallala leialala





Elizabeth and Leicester





Beating oars

280



The stern was formed





A gilded shell





Red and gold





The brisk swell





Rippled both shores

285



South-west wind





Carried down stream





The peal of bells





White towers





Weialala leia

290



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.“

295







“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.

300



I can connect





Nothing with nothing.





The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.





My people humble people who expect





Nothing.”

305







la la









To Carthage then I came









Burning burning burning burning





O Lord Thou pluckest me out





O Lord Thou pluckest

310







burning










IV. DEATH BY WATER

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,




Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell





And the profit and loss.





A current under sea

315



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,

320



Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.










V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID

After the torch-light red on sweaty faces




After the frosty silence in the gardens





After the agony in stony places





The shouting and the crying

325



Prison and place 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

330







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

335



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

340



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 mud-cracked houses
If there were water

345



And no rock





If there were rock





And also water





And water





A spring

350



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

355



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

360



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?

365







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

370



What is the city over the mountains





Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air





Falling towers





Jerusalem Athens Alexandria





Vienna London

375



Unreal









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

380



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

385



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.

390



Only a cock stood on the roof-tree





Co co rico co co rico





In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust





Bringing rain





Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves

395



Waited for rain, while the black clouds





Gathered far distant, over Himavant.





The jungle crouched, humped in silence.





Then spoke the thunder





DA

400



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

405



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

410



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

415



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

420



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?

425







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 à la tour abolie





These fragments I have shored against my ruins

430



Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.





Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.









Shantih shantih shantih

The Waste Land -T.S. Eliot

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 5
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, 15
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, 25
(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; 35
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.
Öd’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, 45
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. 55
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. 65
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 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! 75
You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

II. A GAME OF CHESS

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 80
(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; 85
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 90
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, 95
In which sad light a carvèd 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 100
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 105
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. 110

“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 115
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. 120
“Do
You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
Nothing?”
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes. 125
“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 130

“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. 135
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, 140
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, 145
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. 150
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. 155
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.) 160
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 children?
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME 165
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—
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. 170
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

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. 175
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; 180
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 185
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. 190
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. 195
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 200
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. 205
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210
C. i. f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a week-end at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back 215
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 220
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at tea-time, 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, 225
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. 230
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, 235
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; 240
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 245
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronizing kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit…

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover; 250
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, 255
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, 260
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. 265

The river sweats
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails 270
Wide
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach 275
Past the Isle of Dogs.
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala
Elizabeth and Leicester
Beating oars 280
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores 285
South-west wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers
Weialala leia 290
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.“ 295

“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. 300
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken finger-nails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.” 305

la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest 310

burning

IV. DEATH BY WATER

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea 315
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, 320
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID

After the torch-light red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying 325
Prison and place 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 330

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 335
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 340
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 mud-cracked houses
If there were water 345
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring 350
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 355
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 360
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? 365

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 370
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London 375
Unreal

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 380
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 385
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. 390
Only a cock stood on the roof-tree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves 395
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
DA 400
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 405
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 410
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 415
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 420
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? 425

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 à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins 430
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih
ALL DAY IT HAS RAINED

All day it has rained, and we on the edge of the moors
Have sprawled in our bell-tents, moody and dull as boors,
Groundsheets and blankets spread on the muddy ground
And from the first grey wakening we have found

No refuge from the skirmishing fine rain
And the wind that made the canvas heave and flap
And the taut wet guy-ropes ravel out and snap,
All day the rain has glided, wave and mist and dream,
Drenching the gorse and heather, a gossamer stream
Too light to stir the acorns that suddenly
Snatched from their cups by the wild south-westerly
Pattered against the tent and our upturned dreaming faces.
And we stretched out, unbuttoning our braces,
Smoking a Woodbine, darning dirty socks,
Reading the Sunday papers – I saw a fox
And mentioned it in the note I scribbled home;

And we talked of girls and dropping bombs on Rome,
And thought of the quiet dead and the loud celebrities
Exhorting us to slaughter, and the herded refugees;
-Yet thought softly, morosely of them, and as indifferently
As of ourselves or those whom we
For years have loved, and will again
Tomorrow maybe love; but now it is the rain
Possesses us entirely, the twilight and the rain.

And I can remember nothing dearer or more to my heart
Than the children I watched in the woods on Saturday
Shaking down burning chestnuts for the schoolyard’s merry play
Or the shaggy patient dog who followed me
By Sheet and Steep and up the wooded scree
To the Shoulder o’ Mutton where Edward Thomas brooded long
On death and beauty – till a bullet stopped his song.
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