Section 1
| Gerontion |
 Thou hast nor youth nor age |
| But as it were an after dinner sleep |
| Dreaming of both. |
| Here I am, an old man in a dry month, |
| Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain. |
| I was neither at the hot gates |
| Nor fought in the warm rain |
| Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass, |
| Bitten by flies, fought. |
| My house is a decayed house, |
| And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner, |
| Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp, |
| Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London. |
| The goat coughs at night in the field overhead; |
| Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds. |
| The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea, |
| Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter. |
| I an old man, |
| A dull head among windy spaces. |
| Signs are taken for wonders. "We would see a sign": |
| The word within a word, unable to speak a word, |
| Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year |
| Came Christ the tiger |
| In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering Judas, |
| To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk |
| Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero |
| With caressing hands, at Limoges |
| Who walked all night in the next room; |
| By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians; |
| By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room |
| Shifting the candles; Fraulein von Kulp |
| Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttles |
| Weave the wind. I have no ghosts, |
| An old man in a draughty house |
| Under a windy knob. |
| After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now |
| History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors |
| And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions, |
| Guides us by vanities. Think now |
| She gives when our attention is distracted |
| And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions |
| That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late |
| What's not believed in, or if still believed, |
| In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon |
| Into weak hands, what's thought can be dispensed with |
| Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think |
| Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices |
| Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues |
| Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes. |
| These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree. |
| The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last |
| We have not reached conclusion, when I |
| Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last |
| I have not made this show purposelessly |
| And it is not by any concitation |
| Of the backward devils. |
| I would meet you upon this honestly. |
| I that was near your heart was removed therefrom |
| To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition. |
| I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it |
| Since what is kept must be adulterated? |
| I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch: |
| How should I use it for your closer contact? |
| These with a thousand small deliberations |
| Protract the profit of their chilled delirium, |
| Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled, |
| With pungent sauces, multiply variety |
| In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do, |
| Suspend its operations, will the weevil |
| Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled |
| Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear |
| In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits |
| Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn, |
| White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims, |
| And an old man driven by the Trades |
| To a sleepy corner. |
| Tenants of the house, |
| Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season. |
| 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. |
| Burbank crossed a little bridge |
| Descending at a small hotel; |
| Princess Volupine arrived, |
| They were together, and he fell. |
| Defunctive music under sea |
| Passed seaward with the passing bell |
| Slowly: the God Hercules |
| Had left him, that had loved him well. |
| The horses, under the axletree |
| Beat up the dawn from Istria |
| With even feet. Her shuttered barge |
| Burned on the water all the day. |
| But this or such was Bleistein's way: |
| A saggy bending of the knees |
| And elbows, with the palms turned out, |
| Chicago Semite Viennese. |
| A lustreless protrusive eye |
| Stares from the protozoic slime |
| At a perspective of Canaletto. |
| The smoky candle end of time |
| Declines. On the Rialto once. |
| The rats are underneath the piles. |
| The jew is underneath the lot. |
| Money in furs. The boatman smiles, |
| Princess Volupine extends |
| A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand |
| To climb the waterstair. Lights, lights, |
| She entertains Sir Ferdinand |
| Klein. Who clipped the lion's wings |
| And flea'd his rump and pared his claws? |
| Thought Burbank, meditating on |
| Time's ruins, and the seven laws. |
| Sweeney Erect |
| And the trees about me, |
| 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 a cavernous waste shore |
| Cast in the unstilted Cyclades, |
| Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks |
| Faced by the snarled and yelping seas. |
| Display me Aeolus above |
| Reviewing the insurgent gales |
| Which tangle Ariadne's hair |
| And swell with haste the perjured sails. |
| Morning stirs the feet and hands |
| (Nausicaa and Polypheme), |
| Gesture of orang-outang |
| Rises from the sheets in steam. |
| This withered root of knots of hair |
| Slitted below and gashed with eyes, |
| This oval O cropped out with teeth: |
| The sickle motion from the thighs |
| Jackknifes upward at the knees |
| Then straightens out from heel to hip |
| Pushing the framework of the bed |
| And clawing at the pillow slip. |
| Sweeney addressed full length to shave |
| Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base, |
| Knows the female temperament |
| And wipes the suds around his face. |
| (The lengthened shadow of a man |
| Is history, said Emerson |
| Who had not seen the silhouette |
| Of Sweeney straddled in the sun). |
| Tests the razor on his leg |
| Waiting until the shriek subsides. |
| The epileptic on the bed |
| Curves backward, clutching at her sides. |
| The ladies of the corridor |
| Find themselves involved, disgraced, |
| Call witness to their principles |
| And deprecate the lack of taste |
| Observing that hysteria |
| Might easily be misunderstood; |
| Mrs. Turner intimates |
| It does the house no sort of good. |
| But Doris, towelled from the bath, |
| Enters padding on broad feet, |
| Bringing sal volatile |
| And a glass of brandy neat. |
| A Cooking Egg |
| En l'an trentiesme de mon aage |
| Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beucs ... |
| Pipit sate upright in her chair |
| Some distance from where I was sitting; |
| Views of the Oxford Colleges |
| Lay on the table, with the knitting. |
| Daguerreotypes and silhouettes, |
| Her grandfather and great great aunts, |
| Supported on the mantelpiece |
| An Invitation to the Dance. |
| . . . . . . |
| I shall not want Honour in Heaven |
| For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney |
| And have talk with Coriolanus |
| And other heroes of that kidney. |
| I shall not want Capital in Heaven |
| For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond: |
| We two shall lie together, lapt |
| In a five per cent Exchequer Bond. |
| I shall not want Society in Heaven, |
| Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride; |
| Her anecdotes will be more amusing |
| Than Pipit's experience could provide. |
| I shall not want Pipit in Heaven: |
| Madame Blavatsky will instruct me |
| In the Seven Sacred Trances; |
| Piccarda de Donati will conduct me ... |
| . . . . . . |
| But where is the penny world I bought |
| To eat with Pipit behind the screen? |
| The red-eyed scavengers are creeping |
| From Kentish Town and Golder's Green; |
| Where are the eagles and the trumpets? |
| Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps. |
| Over buttered scones and crumpets |
| Weeping, weeping multitudes |
| Droop in a hundred A.B.C.'s |
| ["ABC's" signifes endemic teashops, found in all parts of |
| London. The initials signify "Aerated Bread Company, |
| Limited."—Project Gutenberg Editor's replacement of |
| original footnote] |
| Le Directeur |
| Malheur à la malheureuse Tamise! |
| Tamisel Qui coule si pres du Spectateur. |
| Le directeur |
| Conservateur |
| Du Spectateur |
| Empeste la brise. |
| Les actionnaires |
| Réactionnaires |
| Du Spectateur |
| Conservateur |
| Bras dessus bras dessous |
| Font des tours |
| A pas de loup. |
| Dans un égout |
| Une petite fille |
| En guenilles |
| Camarde |
| Regarde |
| Le directeur |
| Du Spectateur |
| Conservateur |
| Et crève d'amour. |
| Mélange adultère de tout |
| En Amerique, professeur; |
| En Angleterre, journaliste; |
| C'est à grands pas et en sueur |
| Que vous suivrez à peine ma piste. |
| En Yorkshire, conferencier; |
| A Londres, un peu banquier, |
| Vous me paierez bien la tête. |
| C'est à Paris que je me coiffe |
| Casque noir de jemenfoutiste. |
| En Allemagne, philosophe |
| Surexcité par Emporheben |
| Au grand air de Bergsteigleben; |
| J'erre toujours de-ci de-là |
| A divers coups de tra la la |
| De Damas jusqu'à Omaha. |
| Je celebrai mon jour de fête |
| Dans une oasis d'Afrique |
| Vêtu d'une peau de girafe. |
| On montrera mon cénotaphe |
| Aux côtes brûlantes de Mozambique. |
| Lune de Miel |
| Ils ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent à Terre Haute; |
| Mais une nuit d'été, les voici à Ravenne, |
| A l'sur le dos écartant les genoux |
| De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures. |
| On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner. |
| Moins d'une lieue d'ici est Saint Apollinaire |
| In Classe, basilique connue des amateurs |
| De chapitaux d'acanthe que touraoie le vent. |
| Ils vont prendre le train de huit heures |
| Prolonger leurs misères de Padoue à Milan |
| Ou se trouvent le Cène, et un restaurant pas cher. |
| Lui pense aux pourboires, et redige son bilan. |
| Ils auront vu la Suisse et traversé la France. |
| Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascétique, |
| Vieille usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore |
| Dans ses pierres ècroulantes la forme precise de Byzance. |
| The Hippopotamus |
| Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut |
| mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum |
| Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros |
| autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem |
| Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de |
| quibus suadeo vos sic habeo. |
| S. IGNATII AD TRALLIANOS. |
| And when this epistle is read among you, cause |
| that it be read also in the church of the |
| Laodiceans. |
| The broad-backed hippopotamus |
| Rests on his belly in the mud; |
| Although he seems so firm to us |
| He is merely flesh and blood. |
| Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail, |
| Susceptible to nervous shock; |
| While the True Church can never fail |
| For it is based upon a rock. |
| The hippo's feeble steps may err |
| In compassing material ends, |
| While the True Church need never stir |
| To gather in its dividends. |
| The 'potamus can never reach |
| The mango on the mango-tree; |
| But fruits of pomegranate and peach |
| Refresh the Church from over sea. |
| At mating time the hippo's voice |
| Betrays inliexions hoarse and odd, |
| But every week we hear rejoice |
| The Church, at being one with God. |
| The hippopotamus's day |
| Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts; |
| God works in a mysterious way- |
| The Church can sleep and feed at once. |
| I saw the 'potamus take wing |
| Ascending from the damp savannas, |
| And quiring angels round him sing |
| The praise of God, in loud hosannas. |
| Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean |
| And him shall heavenly arms enfold, |
| Among the saints he shall be seen |
| Performing on a harp of gold. |
| He shall be washed as white as snow, |
| By all the martyr'd virgins kiss, |
| While the True Church remains below |
| Wrapt in the old miasmal mist. |
| Dans le Restaurant |
| Le garcon délabré qui n'a rien à faire |
| Que de se gratter les doigts et se pencher sur mon épaule: |
| "Dans mon pays il fera temps pluvieux, |
| Du vent, du grand soleil, et de la pluie; |
| C'est ce qu'on appelle le jour de lessive des gueux." |
| (Bavard, baveux, à la croupe arrondie, |
| Je te prie, au moins, ne bave pas dans la soupe). |
| "Les saules trempés, et des bourgeons sur les ronces— |
| C'est là, dans une averse, qu'on s'abrite. |
| J'avais septtans, elle était plus petite. |
| Elle etait toute mouillée, je lui ai donné des primavères." |
| Les tâches de son gilet montent au chiffre de trente-huit. |
| "Je la chatouillais, pour la faire rire. |
| J'éprouvais un instant de puissance et de délire. |
| Mais alors, vieux lubrique, a cet âge ... |
| "Monsieur, le fait est dur. |
| Il est venu, nous peloter, un gros chien; |
| Moi j'avais peur, je l'ai quittee a mi-chemin. |
| C'est dommage." |
| Mais alors, tu as ton vautour! |
| Va t'en te décrotter les rides du visage; |
| Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne. |
| De quel droit payes-tu des expériences comme moi? |
| Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bains. |
| Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé, |
| Oubliait les cris des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille, |
| Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d'etain: |
| Un courant de sous-mer l'emporta tres loin, |
| Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure. |
| Figurez-vous donc, c'etait un sort penible; |
| Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille. |
| Whispers of Immortality |
| Webster was much possessed by death |
| And saw the skull beneath the skin; |
| And breastless creatures under ground |
| Leaned backward with a lipless grin. |
| Daffodil bulbs instead of balls |
| Stared from the sockets of the eyes! |
| He knew that thought clings round dead limbs |
| Tightening its lusts and luxuries. |
| Donne, I suppose, was such another |
| Who found no substitute for sense; |
| To seize and clutch and penetrate, |
| Expert beyond experience, |
| He knew the anguish of the marrow |
| The ague of the skeleton; |
| No contact possible to flesh |
| Allayed the fever of the bone. |
| . . . . . |
| Grishkin is nice: her |
| Russian eye is underlined for emphasis; |
| Uncorseted, her friendly bust |
| Gives promise of pneumatic bliss. |
| The couched Brazilian jaguar |
| Compels the scampering marmoset |
| With subtle effluence of cat; |
| Grishkin has a maisonette; |
| The sleek Brazilian jaguar |
| Does not in its arboreal gloom |
| Distil so rank a feline smell |
| As Grishkin in a drawing-room. |
| And even the Abstract Entities |
| Circumambulate her charm; |
| But our lot crawls between dry ribs |
| To keep our metaphysics warm. |
| Mr. Eliot's Sunday Morning Service |
| Look, look, master, here comes two religions |
| caterpillars. |
| The Jew of Malta. |
| Polyphiloprogenitive |
| The sapient sutlers of the Lord |
| Drift across the window-panes. |
| In the beginning was the Word. |
| In the beginning was the Word. |
| Superfetation of [Greek text inserted here], |
| And at the mensual turn of time |
| Produced enervate Origen. |
| A painter of the Umbrian school |
| Designed upon a gesso ground |
| The nimbus of the Baptized God. |
| The wilderness is cracked and browned |
| But through the water pale and thin |
| Still shine the unoffending feet |
| And there above the painter set |
| The Father and the Paraclete. |
| . . . . . |
| The sable presbyters approach |
| The avenue of penitence; |
| The young are red and pustular |
| Clutching piaculative pence. |
| Under the penitential gates |
| Sustained by staring Seraphim |
| Where the souls of the devout |
| Burn invisible and dim. |
| Along the garden-wall the bees |
| With hairy bellies pass between |
| The staminate and pistilate, |
| Blest office of the epicene. |
| Sweeney shifts from ham to ham |
| Stirring the water in his bath. |
| The masters of the subtle schools |
| Are controversial, polymath. |
| Sweeney Among the Nightingales |
| [Greek text inserted here] |
| Apeneck Sweeney spreads his knees |
| Letting his arms hang down to laugh, |
| The zebra stripes along his jaw |
| Swelling to maculate giraffe. |
| The circles of the stormy moon |
| Slide westward toward the River Plate, |
| Death and the Raven drift above |
| And Sweeney guards the horned gate. |
| Gloomy Orion and the Dog |
| Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas; |
| The person in the Spanish cape |
| Tries to sit on Sweeney's knees |
| Slips and pulls the table cloth |
| Overturns a coffee-cup, |
| Reorganized upon the floor |
| She yawns and draws a stocking up; |
| The silent man in mocha brown |
| Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes; |
| The waiter brings in oranges |
| Bananas figs and hothouse grapes; |
| The silent vertebrate in brown |
| Contracts and concentrates, withdraws; |
| Rachel née Rabinovitch |
| Tears at the grapes with murderous paws; |
| She and the lady in the cape |
| Are suspect, thought to be in league; |
| Therefore the man with heavy eyes |
| Declines the gambit, shows fatigue, |
| Leaves the room and reappears |
| Outside the window, leaning in, |
| Branches of wisteria |
| Circumscribe a golden grin; |
| The host with someone indistinct |
| Converses at the door apart, |
| The nightingales are singing near |
| The Convent of the Sacred Heart, |
| And sang within the bloody wood |
| When Agamemnon cried aloud, |
| And let their liquid droppings fall |
| To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud. |
