“Preludes” by T. S. Eliot The thousand sordid images I Of which your soul was constituted; The winter evening settles down They flickered against the ceiling. With smell of steaks in passageways. And when all the world came back Six o’clock. And the light crept up between the shutters The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And you heard the sparrows in the gutters, And now a gusty shower wraps You had such a vision of the street The grimy scraps As the street hardly understands; Of withered leaves about your feet Sitting along the bed’s edge, where And newspapers from vacant lots; You curled the papers from your hair, The showers beat Or clasped the yellow soles of feet On broken blinds and chimney-pots, In the palms of both soiled hands And at the corner of the street IV A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. His soul stretched tight across the skies And then the lighting of the lamps. That fade behind a city block, II Or trampled by insistent feet The morning comes to consciousness At four and five and six o’clock; Of faint stale smells of beer And short square fingers stuffing pipes, From the sawdust-trampled street And evening newspapers, and eyes With all its muddy feet that press Assured of certain certainties, To early coffee-stands. The conscience of a blackened street With the other masquerades Impatient to assume the world. That time resumes, I am moved by fancies that are curled One thinks of all the hands Around these images, and cling: That are raising dingy shades The notion of some infinitely gentle In a thousand furnished rooms. Infinitely suffering thing. III Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; You tossed a blanket from the bed, The worlds revolve like ancient women You lay upon your back, and waited; Gathering fuel in vacant lots. You dozed, and watched the night revealing
“Preludes” by T. S. Eliot I The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o’clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps. II The morning comes to consciousness Of faint stale smells of beer From the sawdust-trampled street With all its muddy feet that press To early coffee-stands. With the other masquerades That time resumes, One thinks of all the hands That are raising dingy shades In a thousand furnished rooms. III You tossed a blanket from the bed, You lay upon your back, and waited; You dozed, and watched the night revealing The thousand sordid images Of which your soul was constituted; They flickered against the ceiling. And when all the world came back And the light crept up between the shutters And you heard the sparrows in the gutters, You had such a vision of the street As the street hardly understands; Sitting along the bed’s edge, where You curled the papers from your hair, Or clasped the yellow soles of feet In the palms of both soiled hands IV His soul stretched tight across the skies That fade behind a city block, Or trampled by insistent feet At four and five and six o’clock; And short square fingers stuffing pipes, And evening newspapers, and eyes Assured of certain certainties, The conscience of a blackened street Impatient to assume the world. I am moved by fancies that are curled Around these images, and cling: The notion of some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing. Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; The worlds revolve like ancient women Gathering fuel in vacant lots.