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by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Little Gidding

We shall not cease from exploration 
And the end of all our exploring 
Will be to arrive where we started 
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half heard, in the stillness Between the two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always-- A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of things shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
Little Gidding V, Four Quartets.
-- T.
S.
Eliot (1943)


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Preludes

 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.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Mr. Mistoffelees

 You ought to know Mr.
Mistoffelees! The Original Conjuring Cat-- (There can be no doubt about that).
Please listen to me and don't scoff.
All his Inventions are off his own bat.
There's no such Cat in the metropolis; He holds all the patent monopolies For performing suprising illusions And creating eccentric confusions.
At prestidigitation And at legerdemain He'll defy examination And deceive you again.
The greatest magicians have something to learn From Mr.
Mistoffelees' Conjuring Turn.
Presto! Away we go! And we all say: OH! Well I never! Was there ever A Cat so clever As Magical Mr.
Mistoffelees! He is quiet and small, he is black From his ears to the tip of his tail; He can creep through the tiniest crack, He can walk on the narrowest rail.
He can pick any card from a pack, He is equally cunning with dice; He is always deceiving you into believing That he's only hunting for mice.
He can play any trick with a cork Or a spoon and a bit of fish-paste; If you look for a knife or a fork And you think it is merely misplaced-- You have seen it one moment, and then it is gawn! But you'll find it next week lying out on the lawn.
And we all say: OH! Well I never! Was there ever A Cat so clever As Magical Mr.
Mistoffelees! His manner is vague and aloof, You would think there was nobody shyer-- But his voice has been heard on the roof When he was curled up by the fire.
And he's sometimes been heard by the fire When he was about on the roof-- (At least we all heard that somebody purred) Which is incontestable proof Of his singular magical powers: And I have known the family to call Him in from the garden for hours, While he was asleep in the hall.
And not long ago this phenomenal Cat Produced seven kittens right out of a hat! And we all said: OH! Well I never! Did you ever Know a Cat so clever As Magical Mr.
Mistoffelees!


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by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Journey Of The Magi

 'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
' And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped in away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no imformation, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt.
I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Sweeney Erect

 And the trees about me,
Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
Groan with continual surges; and behind me
Make all a desolation.
Look, look, wenches! PAINT me a cavernous waste shore Cast in the unstilled Cyclades, Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
Display me Aeolus above Reviewing the insurgent gales Which tangle Ariadne’s hair And swell with haste the perjured sails.
Morning stirs the feet and hands (Nausicaa and Polypheme).
Gesture of orang-outang Rises from the sheets in steam.
This withered root of knots of hair Slitted below and gashed with eyes, This oval O cropped out with teeth: The sickle motion from the thighs Jackknifes upward at the knees Then straightens out from heel to hip Pushing the framework of the bed And clawing at the pillow slip.
Sweeney addressed full length to shave Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base, Knows the female temperament And wipes the suds around his face.
(The lengthened shadow of a man Is history, said Emerson Who had not seen the silhouette Of Sweeney straddled in the sun.
) Tests the razor on his leg Waiting until the shriek subsides.
The epileptic on the bed Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
The ladies of the corridor Find themselves involved, disgraced, Call witness to their principles And deprecate the lack of taste Observing that hysteria Might easily be misunderstood; Mrs.
Turner intimates It does the house no sort of good.
But Doris, towelled from the bath, Enters padding on broad feet, Bringing sal volatile And a glass of brandy neat.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

The Hippopotamus

  Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut
Jesum Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros autem, ut concilium Dei et
conjunctionem Apostolorum.
Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
S.
Ignatii Ad Trallianos.
And when this epistle is read among you, cause that it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.
THE BROAD-BACKED hippopotamus Rests on his belly in the mud; Although he seems so firm to us He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and blood is weak and frail, Susceptible to nervous shock; While the True Church can never fail For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo’s feeble steps may err In compassing material ends, While the True Church need never stir To gather in its dividends.
The ’potamus can never reach The mango on the mango-tree; But fruits of pomegranate and peach Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo’s voice Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd, But every week we hear rejoice The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus’s day Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious way— The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the ’potamus take wing Ascending from the damp savannas, And quiring angels round him sing The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean And him shall heavenly arms enfold, Among the saints he shall be seen Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow, By all the martyr’d virgins kist, While the True Church remains below Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Conversation Galante

 I OBSERVE: “Our sentimental friend the moon!
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester John’s balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travellers to their distress.
” She then: “How you digress!” And I then: “Someone frames upon the keys That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain The night and moonshine; music which we seize To body forth our own vacuity.
” She then: “Does this refer to me?” “Oh no, it is I who am inane.
” “You, madam, are the eternal humorist, The eternal enemy of the absolute, Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist! With your air indifferent and imperious At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—” And—“Are we then so serious?”


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Le Directeur

 MALHEUR à la malheureuse Tamise
Qui coule si preès du Spectateur.
Le directeur Conservateur Du Spectateur Empeste la brise.
Les actionnaires Réactionnaires Du Spectateur Conservateur Bras dessus bras dessous Font des tours A pas de loup.
Dans un égout Une petite fille En guenilles Camarde Regarde Le directeur Du Spectateur Conservateur Et crève d’amour.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Aunt Helen

 MISS HELEN SLINGSBY was my maiden aunt,
And lived in a small house near a fashionable square
Cared for by servants to the number of four.
Now when she died there was silence in heaven And silence at her end of the street.
The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet— He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.
The dogs were handsomely provided for, But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece, And the footman sat upon the dining-table Holding the second housemaid on his knees— Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar

 Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil nisi divinum stabile est; caetera fumus—the gondola
stopped, the old palace was there, how charming its grey and pink—goats and
monkeys, with such hair too!—so the countess passed on until she came through the
little park, where Niobe presented her with a cabinet, and so departed.
BURBANK crossed a little bridge Descending at a small hotel; Princess Volupine arrived, They were together, and he fell.
Defunctive music under sea Passed seaward with the passing bell Slowly: the God Hercules Had left him, that had loved him well.
The horses, under the axletree Beat up the dawn from Istria With even feet.
Her shuttered barge Burned on the water all the day.
But this or such was Bleistein’s way: A saggy bending of the knees And elbows, with the palms turned out, Chicago Semite Viennese.
A lustreless protrusive eye Stares from the protozoic slime At a perspective of Canaletto.
The smoky candle end of time Declines.
On the Rialto once.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Money in furs.
The boatman smiles, Princess Volupine extends A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand To climb the waterstair.
Lights, lights, She entertains Sir Ferdinand Klein.
Who clipped the lion’s wings And flea’d his rump and pared his claws? Thought Burbank, meditating on Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Hysteria

 As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth
were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill.
I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled at each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles.
An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: “If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden.
.
.
” I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

La Figlia che Piange

 O quam te memorem virgo.
.
.
STAND on the highest pavement of the stair— Lean on a garden urn— Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair— Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise— Fling them to the ground and turn With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
So I would have had him leave, So I would have had her stand and grieve, So he would have left As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find Some way incomparably light and deft, Some way we both should understand, Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours: Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together! I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

The Rum Tum Tugger

 The Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat, If you put him in a flat then he'd rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat, If you set him on a rat then he'd rather chase a mouse.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat-- And there isn't any call for me to shout it: For he will do As he do do And there's no doing anything about it! The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore: When you let him in, then he wants to be out; He's always on the wrong side of every door, And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about.
He likes to lie in the bureau drawer, But he makes such a fuss if he can't get out.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat-- And there isn't any use for you to doubt it: For he will do As he do do And there's no doing anything about it! The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious beast: His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast; When there isn't any fish then he won't eat rabbit.
If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers, For he only likes what he finds for himself; So you'll catch him in it right up to the ears, If you put it away on the larder shelf.
The Rum Tum Tugger is artful and knowing, The Rum Tum Tugger doesn't care for a cuddle; But he'll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing, For there's nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the Rum Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat-- And there isn't any need for me to spout it: For he will do As he do do And theres no doing anything about it!


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

The Naming Of Cats

 The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily, Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James, Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey-- All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames: Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter-- But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular, A name that's peculiar, and more dignified, Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular, Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride? Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum, Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat, Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum- Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over, And that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human research can discover-- But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Mélange Adultère de Tout

 EN Amerique, professeur;
En Angleterre, journaliste;
C’est à grands pas et en sueur
Que vous suivrez à peine ma piste.
En Yorkshire, conférencier; A Londres, un peu banquier, Vous me paierez bein la tête.
C’est à Paris que je me coiffe Casque noir de jemenfoutiste.
En Allemagne, philosophe Surexcité par Emporheben Au grand air de Bergsteigleben; J’erre toujours de-ci de-là A divers coups de tra là là De Damas jusqu’à Omaha.
Je célébrai mon jour de fête Dans une oasis d’Afrique Vetu d’une peau de girafe.
On montrera mon cénotaphe Aux côtes brulantes de Mozambique.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Mr. Apollinax

 WHEN Mr.
Apollinax visited the United States His laughter tinkled among the teacups.
I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees, And of Priapus in the shrubbery Gaping at the lady in the swing.
In the palace of Mrs.
Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah’s He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
His laughter was submarine and profound Like the old man of the sea’s Hidden under coral islands Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence, Dropping from fingers of surf.
I looked for the head of Mr.
Apollinax rolling under a chair Or grinning over a screen With seaweed in its hair.
I heard the beat of centaur’s hoofs over the hard turf As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.
“He is a charming man”—“But after all what did he mean?”— “His pointed ears.
.
.
He must be unbalanced,”— “There was something he said that I might have challenged.
” Of dowager Mrs.
Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs.
Cheetah I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten macaroon.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Lune de Miel

 ILS ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent à Terre Haute;
Mais une nuit d’été, les voici à Ravenne,
A l’aise entre deux draps, chez deux centaines de punaises;
La sueur aestivale, et une forte odeur de chienne.
Ils restent sur le dos écartant les genoux De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures.
On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner.
Moins d’une lieue d’ici est Saint Apollinaire En Classe, basilique connue des amateurs De chapitaux d’acanthe que tournoie le vent.
Ils vont prendre le train de huit heures Prolonger leurs misères de Padoue à Milan Où se trouvent la Cène, et un restaurant pas cher.
Lui pense aux pourboires, et rédige son bilan.
Ils auront vu la Suisse et traversé la France.
Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascétique, Vieille usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore Dans ses pierres écroulantes la forme précise de Byzance.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

The Boston Evening Transcript

 THE READERS of the Boston Evening Transcript
Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
When evening quickens faintly in the street, Wakening the appetites of life in some And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript, I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he at the end of the street, And I say, “Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Mr. Eliot’s Sunday Morning Service

 Look, look, master, here comes two religious caterpillars.
The Jew of Malta.
POLYPHILOPROGENITIVE The sapient sutlers of the Lord Drift across the window-panes.
In the beginning was the Word.
In the beginning was the Word.
Superfetation of , And at the mensual turn of time Produced enervate Origen.
A painter of the Umbrian school Designed upon a gesso ground The nimbus of the Baptized God.
The wilderness is cracked and browned But through the water pale and thin Still shine the unoffending feet And there above the painter set The Father and the Paraclete.
.
.
.
.
.
The sable presbyters approach The avenue of penitence; The young are red and pustular Clutching piaculative pence.
Under the penitential gates Sustained by staring Seraphim Where the souls of the devout Burn invisible and dim.
Along the garden-wall the bees With hairy bellies pass between The staminate and pistilate, Blest office of the epicene.
Sweeney shifts from ham to ham Stirring the water in his bath.
The masters of the subtle schools Are controversial, polymath.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Morning at the Window

 THEY are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The brown waves of fog toss up to me Twisted faces from the bottom of the street, And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts An aimless smile that hovers in the air And vanishes along the level of the roofs.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Dans le Restaurant

 LE garçon délabré qui n’a rien à faire
Que de se gratter les doigts et se pencher sur mon épaule:
“Dans mon pays il fera temps pluvieux,
Du vent, du grand soleil, et de la pluie;
C’est ce qu’on appelle le jour de lessive des gueux.
” (Bavard, baveux, à la croupe arrondie, Je te prie, au moins, ne bave pas dans la soupe).
“Les saules trempés, et des bourgeons sur les ronces— C’est là, dans une averse, qu’on s’abrite.
J’avais sept ans, elle était plus petite.
Elle était toute mouillée, je lui ai donné des primevères.
” Les taches de son gilet montent au chiffre de trentehuit.
“Je la chatouillais, pour la faire rire.
J’éprouvais un instant de puissance et de délire.
” Mais alors, vieux lubrique, à cet âge.
.
.
“Monsieur, le fait est dur.
Il est venu, nous peloter, un gros chien; Moi j’avais peur, je l’ai quittée à mi-chemin.
C’est dommage.
” Mais alors, tu as ton vautour! Va t’en te décrotter les rides du visage; Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne.
De quel droit payes-tu des expériences comme moi? Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bains.
Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé, Oubliait les cris des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille, Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d’étain: Un courant de sous-mer l’emporta très loin, Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure.
Figurez-vous donc, c’était un sort pénible; Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

The Ad-Dressing Of Cats

 You've read of several kinds of Cat,
And my opinion now is that
You should need no interpreter
To understand their character.
You now have learned enough to see That Cats are much like you and me And other people whom we find Possessed of various types of mind.
For some are same and some are mad And some are good and some are bad And some are better, some are worse-- But all may be described in verse.
You've seen them both at work and games, And learnt about their proper names, Their habits and their habitat: But How would you ad-dress a Cat? So first, your memory I'll jog, And say: A CAT IS NOT A DOG.
And you might now and then supply Some caviare, or Strassburg Pie, Some potted grouse, or salmon paste-- He's sure to have his personal taste.
(I know a Cat, who makes a habit Of eating nothing else but rabbit, And when he's finished, licks his paws So's not to waste the onion sauce.
) A Cat's entitled to expect These evidences of respect.
And so in time you reach your aim, And finally call him by his NAME.
So this is this, and that is that: And there's how you AD-DRESS A CAT.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Cousin Nancy

 MISS NANCY ELLICOTT
Strode across the hills and broke them,
Rode across the hills and broke them—
The barren New England hills—
Riding to hounds
Over the cow-pasture.
Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked And danced all the modern dances; And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it, But they knew that it was modern.
Upon the glazen shelves kept watch Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith, The army of unalterable law.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

The Song Of The Jellicles

 Jellicle Cats come out tonight,
Jellicle Cats come one come all:
The Jellicle Moon is shining bright--
Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.
Jellicle Cats are black and white, Jellicle Cats are rather small; Jellicle Cats are merry and bright, And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.
Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces, Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes; They like to practise their airs and graces And wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.
Jellicle Cats develop slowly, Jellicle Cats are not too big; Jellicle Cats are roly-poly, They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.
Until the Jellicle Moon appears They make their toilette and take their repose: Jellicles wash behind their ears, Jellicles dry between their toes.
Jellicle Cats are white and black, Jellicle Cats are of moderate size; Jellicles jump like a jumping-jack, Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.
They're quiet enough in the morning hours, They're quiet enough in the afternoon, Reserving their terpsichorean powers To dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.
Jellicle Cats are black and white, Jellicle Cats (as I said) are small; If it happens to be a stormy night They will practise a caper or two in the hall.
If it happens the sun is shining bright You would say they had nothing to do at all: They are resting and saving themselves to be right For the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Bustopher Jones: The Cat About Town

 Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones--
In fact, he's remarkably fat.
He doesn't haunt pubs--he has eight or nine clubs, For he's the St.
James's Street Cat! He's the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street In his coat of fastidious black: No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St.
James's the smartest of names is The name of this Brummell of Cats; And we're all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to By Bustopher Jones in white spats! His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational And it is against the rules For any one Cat to belong both to that And the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season He is found, not at Fox's, but Blimpy's; He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben'son To the Pothunter's succulent bones; And just before noon's not a moment too soon To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he's seen in a hurry there's probably curry At the Siamese--or at the Glutton; If he looks full of gloom then he's lunched at the Tomb On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.
So, much in this way, passes Bustopher's day- At one club or another he's found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes He has grown unmistakably round.
He's a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder, And he's putting on weight every day: But he's so well preserved because he's observed All his life a routine, so he'll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: "I shall last out my time" Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!