Here is the third part of Eliot's The Waste Land
, The Fire Sermon (taken from a sermon preached by Buddha against the things of this world, all figured as consuming fires).III. The Fire Sermon
The river's tent is broken: the last finger of leaf / Clutch and sink into te 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 water 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 of long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear / The rattle of te 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 / Sweeny 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 weeken 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 perolously spread / Her drying combinations touched by the sunn'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 hourse agen'ts clerk, with one bold stare, / One of the low no 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 tires,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses / Which still are unreproved, if undesired. / Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; / Exploring hands encounter no defense; / 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 patronizing 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 the 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 Greenwech reach / Past the Isle of Dogs. / Weialala leia / Wallala leialala / Elizabeth and Leicester / Beating ours / 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
/ = lines breaks in the poem, the same applies for the capitalized words except the names of places.
