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.
180	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 sat fishing in the dull canal
190	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
200	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
210	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
220	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--
230	I too awaited the expected guest.
	He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
	A small house agent's clerk, with a 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.
	Endeavors to engage her in caresses
	Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
	Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
240	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 patronizing kiss,
	And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...
	She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
250	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
260	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 splendor of Ionian white and gold.
	The river sweats
	Oil and tar
	The barges drift
	With the turning tide
	Red sails
270	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
280	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
290	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?'
300	'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
310	O Lord thou pluckest
	burning
	[ The Burial of the Dead | A Game of Chess | The Fire Sermon ]
	[ Death by Water | What the Thunder Said ]
08/13/97	xanax@enteract.com