FOR EZRA POUND

IL MIGLIOR FABBRO

I. 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 arch-duke’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.



Oed’ 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!”











II. A Game of Chess







The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,



Glowed on the marble, where the glass



Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines



From which a golden Cupidon peeped out



(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)



Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra



Reflecting light upon the table as



The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,



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



And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air



That freshened from the window, these ascended



In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,



Flung their smoke into the laquearia,



Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.



Huge sea-wood fed with copper



Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,



In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam.



Above the antique mantel was displayed



As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene



The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king



So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale



Filled all the desert with inviolable voice



And still she cried, and still the world pursues,



“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.



And other withered stumps of time



Were told upon the walls; staring forms



Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.



Footsteps shuffled on the stair.



Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair



Spread out in fiery points



Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.







“My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.



“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.



“What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?



“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”







I think we are in rats’ alley



Where the dead men lost their bones.







“What is that noise?”



The wind under the door.



“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”



Nothing again nothing.



“Do



“You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember



“Nothing?”







I remember



Those are pearls that were his eyes.



“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”







But



O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—



It’s so elegant



So intelligent



“What shall I do now? What shall I do?”



“I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street



“With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?



“What shall we ever do?”



The hot water at ten.



And if it rains, a closed car at four.



And we shall play a game of chess,



Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.







When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—



I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,



H URRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME



Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.



He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you



To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.



You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,



He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.



And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,



He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,



And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.



Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.



Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.



H URRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME



If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.



Others can pick and choose if you can’t.



But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.



You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.



(And her only thirty-one.)



I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,



It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.



(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)



The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same.



You are a proper fool, I said.



Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,



What you get married for if you don’t want children?



H URRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME



Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,



And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—



H URRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME



H URRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME



Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.



Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.



Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.











III. The Fire Sermon







The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf



Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind



Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.



Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.



The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,



Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends



Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.



And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;



Departed, have left no addresses.



By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .



Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,



Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.



But at my back in a cold blast I hear



The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.







A rat crept softly through the vegetation



Dragging its slimy belly on the bank



While I was fishing in the dull canal



On a winter evening round behind the gashouse



Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck



And on the king my father’s death before him.



White bodies naked on the low damp ground



And bones cast in a little low dry garret,



Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.



But at my back from time to time I hear



The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring



Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.



O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter



And on her daughter



They wash their feet in soda water



Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!







Twit twit twit



Jug jug jug jug jug jug



So rudely forc’d.



Tereu







Unreal City



Under the brown fog of a winter noon



Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant



Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants



C.i.f. London: documents at sight,



Asked me in demotic French



To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel



Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.







At the violet hour, when the eyes and back



Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits



Like a taxi throbbing waiting,



I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,



Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see



At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives



Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,



The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights



Her stove, and lays out food in tins.



Out of the window perilously spread



Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,



On the divan are piled (at night her bed)



Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.



I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs



Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—



I too awaited the expected guest.



He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,



A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,



One of the low on whom assurance sits



As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.



The time is now propitious, as he guesses,



The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,



Endeavours to engage her in caresses



Which still are unreproved, if undesired.



Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;



Exploring hands encounter no defence;



His vanity requires no response,



And makes a welcome of indifference.



(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all



Enacted on this same divan or bed;



I who have sat by Thebes below the wall



And walked among the lowest of the dead.)



Bestows one final patronising kiss,



And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .







She turns and looks a moment in the glass,



Hardly aware of her departed lover;



Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:



“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”



When lovely woman stoops to folly and



Paces about her room again, alone,



She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,



And puts a record on the gramophone.







“This music crept by me upon the waters”



And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.



O City city, I can sometimes hear



Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,



The pleasant whining of a mandoline



And a clatter and a chatter from within



Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls



Of Magnus Martyr hold



Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.







The river sweats



Oil and tar



The barges drift



With the turning tide



Red sails



Wide



To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.



The barges wash



Drifting logs



Down Greenwich reach



Past the Isle of Dogs.



Weialala leia



Wallala leialala







Elizabeth and Leicester



Beating oars



The stern was formed



A gilded shell



Red and gold



The brisk swell



Rippled both shores



Southwest wind



Carried down stream



The peal of bells



White towers



Weialala leia



Wallala leialala







“Trams and dusty trees.



Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew



Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees



Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”







“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart



Under my feet. After the event



He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’



I made no comment. What should I resent?”







“On Margate Sands.



I can connect



Nothing with nothing.



The broken fingernails of dirty hands.



My people humble people who expect



Nothing.”



la la







To Carthage then I came







Burning burning burning burning



O Lord Thou pluckest me out



O Lord Thou pluckest







burning











IV. Death by Water







Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,



Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell



And the profit and loss.



A current under sea



Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell



He passed the stages of his age and youth



Entering the whirlpool.



Gentile or Jew



O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,



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











V. What the Thunder Said







After the torchlight red on sweaty faces



After the frosty silence in the gardens



After the agony in stony places



The shouting and the crying



Prison and palace 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 mudcracked 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 rooftree



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



D A



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



D A



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, aethereal rumours



Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus



D A



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 uti 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





