Poems by T. S. Eliot
Author:T. S. Eliot [Eliot, T. S.]
Language: tur
Format: epub
Publisher: Papersense Yayınları
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Portrait of a Lady
Thou hast committedâ
Fornication: but that was in another country
And besides, the wench is dead.
The Jew of Malta.
I
Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
You have the scene arrange itselfâas it will seem to doâ
With âI have saved this afternoon for youâ;
And four wax candles in the darkened room,
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
An atmosphere of Julietâs tomb
Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.
âSo intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
Should be resurrected only among friends
Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.â
âAnd so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.
âYou do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
(For indeed I do not love it... you knew? you are not blind!
How keen you are!)
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to youâ
Without these friendshipsâlife, what cauchemar!â
Among the windings of the violins
And the ariettes
Of cracked cornets
Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
Capricious monotone
That is at least one definite âfalse note.â
âLet us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
Admire the monuments
Discuss the late events,
Correct our watches by the public clocks.
Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.
II
Now that lilacs are in bloom
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
âAh, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you should hold it in your handsâ;
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
âYou let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see.â
I smile, of course,
And go on drinking tea.
âYet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
To be wonderful and youthful, after all.â
The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
âI am always sure that you understand
My feelings, always sure that you feel,
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
You are invulnerable, you have no Achillesâ heel.
You will go on, and when you have prevailed
You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
To give you, what can you receive from me?
Only the friendship and the sympathy
Of one about to reach her journeyâs end.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends....â
I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
For what she has said to me?
You will see me any morning in the park
Reading the comics and the sporting page.
Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage.
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