April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land
In the mountains, there you feel free.
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.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards.
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.
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME
The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The nymphs are departed.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
Elizabeth and Leicester
Burning burning burning burning
He who was living is now dead
Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down