The Waste Land, Prufrock, The Hollow Men and Other Poems

T. S. Eliot

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2022
• ISBN:
  9780486850641
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Poésie américaine

This superb collection of 26 works features the poet's masterpiece "The Waste Land"; the complete Prufrock and Other Observations, "The Hollow Men, " and the collection Poems.

The Waste Land
1922

“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi
in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σιβυλλα
τί θέλεις; respondebat illa: άπoθανειν θέλω.”

For Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro.

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,	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, 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, (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; “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 not...