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Автор Томас Элиот
Table of Contents
PRUFROCK AND OTHER OBSERVATIONS 1917
FOR JEAN VERDENAL, 1889-1915 MORT AUX DARDANELLES
The Love Songof J. Alfred Prufrock
Portrait of a Lady
I
II
III
Preludes
I
II
III
IV
Rhapsody on a Windy Night
Morning at the Window
The Boston Evening Transcript
Aunt Helen
Cousin Nancy
Mr. Apollinax - Ω τnς καivóτητoς ‘Hρκλεiζ, τς παραδoξoλoγíας. εvµnχανoς aνθρωπoς.
Hysteria
Conversation Galante
La Figlia che Piange - O quam te memorem virgo ...
POEMS 1920
Gerontion
Burbank with a Baedeker: - Bleistein with a Cigar
Sweeney Erect
A Cooking Egg
Le Directeur
Mélange Adultère de Tout
Lune de Miel
The Hippopotamus
Dans le Restaurant
Whispers of Immortality
Mr. Eliot’s Sunday Morning Service
Sweeney Among the Nightingales - µoi, πεληγµαi kαiρíαν πληγὴν ἔσω.
THE WASTE LAND 1922
I. The Burial of the Dead
II. A Game of Chess
III. The Fire Sermon
IV. Death by Water
V. What the Thunder Said
Notes on The Waste Land
I. The Burial of the Dead
II.
A Game of ChessIII. The Fire Sermon
V. What the Thunder Said
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.
(from ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,’ page 9)
And I must borrow every changing shape
To find expression ... dance, dance
Like a dancing bear,
Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance—
(from ‘Portrait of a Lady,’ page 17)
The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.
I an old man,
A dull head among windy spaces.
(from ‘Gerontion,’ page 37)
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.
(from ‘The Waste Land,’ page 65)
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 mudcracked houses.
(from ‘The Waste Land,’ page 78)
These fragments I have shored against my ruins.
