Death By Water -

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,

Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell

And the profit and loss.

Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell

He passed the stages of his age and youth

Entering the whirlpool.

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,

Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

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,

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,

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.

Öd’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,

Had a bad cold, nevertheless

Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,

With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,

Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,

(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)

Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,

The lady of situations.

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,

And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,

Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,

Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find

The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.

I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.

Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,

Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:

One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,

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.

Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,

And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.

Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,

To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours

With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.

There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson!

You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!

That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, 

Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!

You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,

And lived in a small house near a fashionable square

Cared for by servants to the number of four.

Now when she died there was silence in heaven

And silence at her end of the street.

The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet —

He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.

The dogs were handsomely provided for,

But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.

The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,

And the footman sat upon the dining-table

Holding the second housemaid on his knees —

Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.

Miss Nancy Ellicott 

Strode across the hills and broke them, 

Rode across the hills and broke them — 

The barren New England hills — 

Riding to hounds 

Over the cow-pasture. 

Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked 

And danced all the modern dances; 

And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it, 

But they knew that it was modern..

Upon the glazen shelves kept watch 

Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith, 

The army of unalterable law. 

 THE BROAD-BACKED hippopotamus Rests on his belly in the mud;Although he seems so firm to usHe is merely flesh and blood. Flesh and blood is weak and frail, Susceptible to nervous shock;While the True Church can never fail For it is based upon a rock. The hippo’s feeble steps may errIn compassing material ends,  While the True Church need never stirTo gather in its dividends. The ’potamus can never reach The mango on the mango-tree;But fruits of pomegranate and peach  Refresh the Church from over sea. At mating time the hippo’s voice Betrays inflexions hoarse

and odd,But every week we hear rejoice The Church, at being one with God.  The hippopotamus’s day Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;God works in a mysterious way—The Church can sleep and feed at once. I saw the ’potamus take wing  Ascending from the damp savannas,And quiring angels round him sing The praise of God, in loud hosannas. Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean And him shall heavenly arms enfold,Among the saints he shall be seen Performing on a harp of gold. He shall be washed as white as snow,By all the martyr’d virgins kist,While the True

Church remains below  Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.