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WASTE LAND
By
T. S. ELIOT
http://archive.org/details/wasteland01elio
THE WASTE LAND
THE WASTE LAND
BY
T. S. ELIOT
NEW YORK
BONI AND LIVERIGHT
1922
Copyright 1922 by
BONI & LIVERIGHT
number.^. .(..O^
Sf Mis
Starnbergersee
colonnade,
garten, 10
H 9 3
THE WASTE LAND
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
echt deutsch.
archduke's,
in the winter.
branches grow
man, 20
Cio.j
THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
You cannot say, or guess, for you know
only
beats,
cricket no relief,
rock),
from either
you
you;
THE WASTE LAND
I will show you fear in a handful of
dust. 30
Hyacinth garden,
could not
silence.
THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
OcT und leer das Meer.
Europe,
she,
Sailor,
Look !)
this card,
his back,
find
a ring.
tone,
Unreal City, 60
many,
many.
Street,
hours
nine.
crying: "Stetson!
Mylae! 7o
C 15 3
THE WASTE LAND
"That corpse you planted last year in
your garden,
this year?
bed?
to men,
Ci6 3
II. A GAME OF CHESS
nished throne,
fruited vines
OUt 80
candelabra
li7l
THE WASTE LAND
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
perfumes,
by the air
ascended 90
coloured stone,
scene
king
gale IOO
pursues,
enclosed.
C19J
THE WASTE LAND
Under the firelight, under the brush, her
hair
agely Still. no
Speak.
ing? What?
"I never know what you are thinking.
Think."
C2on
A GAME OF CHESS
?"
"What is that noise
wind doing?''
"Do
"You know nothing? Do you see nothing?
Do you remember
"Nothing?"
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
in your head?"
But
OOOO that Shakespeherian Rag —
It's so elegant
So intelligent 130
C213
THE WASTE LAND
"What shall I do now? What shall
I do?"
street
do tomorrow?
said —
C22 3
A GAME OF CHESS
I didn't mince my words, I said to her
myself, 140
there.
nice set,
poor Albert,
I said. iso
I said,
lack of telling.
so antique.
said.
it is, I said,
want children?
C263
III. THE FIRE SERMON
fingers of leaf
wich papers,
ette ends
directors ; 180
loud or long.
C28H
THE FIRE SERMON
On a winter evening round behind the
gashouse 190
wreck
him.
ground
shall bring
C29:
THE WASTE LAND
They wash their feet in soda water
coupole !
So rudely forc'd.
Tereu
Unreal City
can see
strives 220
breakfast, lights
C3O
THE WASTE LAND
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
stare,
C3O
THE FIRE SERMON
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
unlit . . .
C 33 3
THE WASTE LAND
Her brain allows one half-formed thought
to pass:
over."
waters"
Street.
Street, 260
C343
THE FIRE SERMON
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
walls
and gold.
Wide
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala
A gilded shell
Southwest wind
White towers
THE FIRE SERMON
Weialala leia 290
Wallala leialala
resent?"
I can connect
Nothing/'
la la
burning
C38 3
IV. DEATH BY WATER
p dead,
swell
and fell
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to
windward, 320
faces
mountains
mountains
water
drink
think
rock
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340
tains
C4i3
THE WASTE LAND
But dry sterile thunder without rain
mountains
And no rock
And water
A spring 3S o
pine trees
you?
together 360
side you
you?
C43 3
THE WASTE LAND
What is that sound high in the air
earth
air
Falling towers
Vienna London
Unreal
tight
IT 44 3
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
blackened wall
hours
home.
C45 3
THE WASTE LAND
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Co co rico co co rico
Bringing rain
Da 400
spider
Da 410
only
prison
Da
Damyata: The boat responded
oar
responded 420
To controlling hands
swallow
C493
NOTES
NOTES
C53 3
THE WASTE LAND
passant."
63. Cf. Inferno III, 55-57:
'voluptas.'
Ilia negat; placuit quae sit sententia docti
Quaerere Tiresiae: venus huic erat utraque
not a.
Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silva
cuiquam
Facta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine adempto
Scire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore.
221. This may not appear as exact as
£S*1
NOTES
Sappho's lines, but I had in mind the "long-
shore" or "dory" fisherman, who returns at
nightfall.
C6o3
NOTES
justly celebrated.
1:623
NOTES
411. Cf. Inferno, XXXIII, 46:
C6 4 3
T. S. Eliot was born in
1888 in St. Louis, Missouri;
he is a graduate of Harvard
and studied at the Sor-
bonne and at Oxford, has
been a lecturer, editor and
banker. For the first few
years in which his poems
appeared he was known
to only a small number of
readers, but his first book
of poems and his long
poem, The Waste Land,
which has just been pub-
lished, have established
him, in the opinion of crit-
ics, as without question the