Saturday, March 15. 2008
Verse 2 of The Burial of the Dead, from The Waste Land (entire poem here). You can hear Eliot reading the poem here. Worth doing. The words and rhythms of Waste Land have become part of our psyche, haven't they? 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. | | Od' und leer das Meer. |
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