The Waste Land
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The Waste Land

T. S. Eliot

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eBook - ePub

The Waste Land

T. S. Eliot

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About This Book

The masterpiece of Modernist poetry, offering a profound and kaleidoscopic meditation on Western life in the aftershocks of World War I. Famous for juxtaposing Eastern cultures with Western literary references, T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land has been celebrated for its eloquence, depth of meaning, and endlessly interwoven subtleties. Rich with allusions to the religious texts of Hinduism and Buddhism, Western literature, and Eliot's own life, the poem continues to provoke, inspire, and delight. First published in 1922, The Waste Land quickly ascending to the status of literary classic. It is widely considered to be Eliot's finest work, representing maturity in his style and confidence in both expression and research. This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.

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Information

Year
2018
ISBN
9781504050197
The Waste Land
T. S. Eliot
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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 arch-duke’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.
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...

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