The Waste Land - III. The Fire Sermon (wiersz klasyka)

Eliot Thomas Stearns

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.     
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 on 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
      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     
      la la     
To Carthage then I came     
Burning burning burning burning     
O Lord Thou pluckest me out     
O Lord Thou pluckest

przysłano: 5 marca 2010

Eliot Thomas Stearns

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