[Part IV here]
by T.S. Eliot
V. What the Thunder Said
After the torch-light red on sweaty faces 
After the frosty silence in the gardens 
After the agony in stony places 
The shouting and the crying
Prison and place and reverberation 
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains 
He who was living is now dead 
We who were living are now dying 
With a little patience
Here is no water but only rock 
Rock and no water and the sandy road 
The road winding above among the mountains 
Which are mountains of rock without water 
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think 
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand 
If there were only water amongst the rock 
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit 
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains 
But dry sterile thunder without rain 
There is not even solitude in the mountains 
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl 
From doors of mud-cracked houses
                                        If there were water
And no rock 
If there were rock 
And also water 
And water 
A spring
A pool among the rock 
If there were the sound of water only 
Not the cicada 
And dry grass singing 
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees 
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop 
But there is no water 
Who is the third who walks always beside you? 
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road 
There is always another one walking beside you 
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded 
I do not know whether a man or a woman 
—But who is that on the other side of you?
What is that sound high in the air 
Murmur of maternal lamentation 
Who are those hooded hordes swarming 
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth 
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains 
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air 
Falling towers 
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria 
Vienna London
Unreal 
A woman drew her long black hair out tight 
And fiddled whisper music on those strings 
And bats with baby faces in the violet light 
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall 
And upside down in air were towers 
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours 
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. 
In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing 
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel 
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home. 
It has no windows, and the door swings, 
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the roof-tree 
Co co rico co co rico 
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust 
Bringing rain 
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds 
Gathered far distant, over Himavant. 
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder 
DA
Datta: what have we given? 
My friend, blood shaking my heart 
The awful daring of a moment's surrender 
Which an age of prudence can never retract 
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries 
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider 
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor 
In our empty rooms 
DA
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key 
Turn in the door once and turn once only 
We think of the key, each in his prison 
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison 
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus 
DA 
Damyata: The boat responded 
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar 
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient 
To controlling hands 
                            I sat upon the shore 
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me 
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down 
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina 
Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow 
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie 
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe. 
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. 
        Shantih     shantih     shantih
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
The Waste Land (Pt. V)
Labels: death, disharmony, doubt, Eliot, hope, loss, melancholia, memory, poetry, Waste Land
0 comments:
Post a Comment