Реферат: Additional Poems By TS Eliot Essay Research

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Additional Poems By T.S. Eliot Essay, Research Paper
[Online Source for All Selections: http://www.bartleby.com/]
from Prufrock and Other Observations (1917)
Fornication: but that was in another country,
AMONG the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
You have the scene arrange itself—as it will seem to do—
With "I have saved this afternoon for you";
And four wax candles in the darkened room,
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and fingertips.
"So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
Should be resurrected only among friends
Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room."
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
"You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
[For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind!
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you—
Without these friendships—life, what cauchemar!"
Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
That is at least one definite "false note."
—Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
Correct our watches by the public clocks.
Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
And twists one in his fingers while she talks.
"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you who hold it in your hands";
"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see."
"Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
To be wonderful and youthful, after all."
The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
"I am always sure that you understand
My feelings, always sure that you feel,
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles’ heel.
You will go on, and when you have prevailed
You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
To give you, what can you receive from me?
Only the friendship and the sympathy
Of one about to reach her journey’s end.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends…."
I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
You will see me any morning in the park
Reading the comics and the sporting page.
An English countess goes upon the stage.
A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
Another bank defaulter has confessed.
Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
Reiterates some worn-out common song
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
Recalling things that other people have desired.
The October night comes down; returning as before
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
"And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
You hardly know when you are coming back,
My smile falls heavily among the bric-?-brac.
My self-possession flares up for a second;
"I have been wondering frequently of late
(But our beginnings never know our ends!)
Why we have not developed into friends."
I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.
"For everybody said so, all our friends,
They all were sure our feelings would relate
So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends."
And I must borrow every changing shape
Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance—
Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon…
Would she not have the advantage, after all?
This music is successful with a "dying fall"
And should I have the right to smile?
With smell of steaks in passageways.
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
His soul stretched tight across the skies
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
The conscience of a blackened street
I am moved by fancies that are curled
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child’s eye.
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
That cross and cross across her brain."
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."
Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar
Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire–nil nisi divinum stabile est;
caetera fumus–the gondola stopped, the old palace was
there, how charming its grey and pink–goats and
monkeys, with such hair too!–so the countess passed on
until she came through the little park, where Niobe
presented her with a cabinet, and so departed.
Passed seaward with the passing bell
Had left him, that had loved him well.
With even feet. Her shuttered barge
But this or such was Bleistein’s way:
And elbows, with the palms turned out,
A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand
To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights,
Klein. Who clipped the lion’s wings
And flea’d his rump and pared his claws?
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
And swell with haste the perjured sails.
This withered root of knots of hair
Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
This oval O cropped out with teeth:
Then straightens out from heel to hip
Sweeney addressed full length to shave
Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
And wipes the suds around his face.
Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
Find themselves involved, disgraced,
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
Slide westward toward the River Plate,
And Sweeney guards the horn?d gate.
Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas;
Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes;
Contracts and concentrates, withdraws;
Tears at the grapes with murderous paws;
Are suspect, thought to be in league;
Declines the gambit, shows fatigue,
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.

Название: Additional Poems By TS Eliot Essay Research
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