There, the eyes are The Hollow Men Sunlight on a broken column By T. S. Eliot There, is a tree swinging And voices are Mistah Kurtz—he dead. In the wind’s singing More distant and more solemn A penny for the Old Guy Than a fading star. I Let me be no nearer In death’s dream kingdom We are the hollow men Let me also wear We are the stuffed men Such deliberate disguises Leaning together Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! In a field Our dried voices, when Behaving as the wind behaves We whisper together No nearer— Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Not that final meeting Or rats’ feet over broken glass In the twilight kingdom In our dry cellar III Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; This is the dead land This is cactus land Those who have crossed Here the stone images With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom Are raised, here they receive Remember us—if at all—not as lost The supplication of a dead man’s hand Violent souls, but only Under the twinkle of a fading star. As the hollow men The stuffed men. Is it like this In death’s other kingdom II Waking alone At the hour when we are Eyes I dare not meet in dreams Trembling with tenderness In death’s dream kingdom Lips that would kiss These do not appear: Form prayers to broken stone.
The Hollow Men By T. S. Eliot Mistah Kurtz—he dead. A penny for the Old Guy I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats’ feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom Remember us—if at all—not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death’s dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind’s singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death’s dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer— Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man’s hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death’s other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone.
IB%20English%20Poetry%20Packet%20Cummings%20Eliot%20%20Williams.docx