the waste land :: essays research papers

The Waste Landby T.S. EliotPart 1 - Burial of the DeadApril is the cruellest month, breedingLilacs out of the dead land, mixingMemory and desire, stirring gradual roots with spring rain.Winter kept us warm, coveringEarth in forgetful snow, feedingA little life with dried tubers. pass surprised us, coming over the StarnbergerseeWith a shower of rain we stopped in the colonnade,And went on in solariselight, into the HofgartenAnd 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-dukes,My cousins, 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-central in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches growOut of this stony rubbish? Son of universe, You canot say, or guess, for you know onlyA 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. OnlyThere is shadow under this red rock,(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),And I willing show you something different from eitherYour shadow at evening rising to meet youI will show you fear in a handfull of dust.Frish weht der WindDer Heimat zuMein Irisch Kind,Wo weilest du?You gave me hyacinths first a year agoThey called me the hyacinth girl.--Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,Your arms full and your hair wet, I could notSpeak, and my eyes failed, I was neitherLiving nor dead, and I knew nothing,Looking into the heart of light, the silence.Oedund leer das Meer.Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,Had a bad cold, neverthelessIs know 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 th ree 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 findThe Hanged Man. Fear shoemakers last 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 myselfOne must be so careful these days.Unreal City,Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,