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Best Famous Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot Poems

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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.
Eliot (1943)

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 | |


 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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

Cousin Nancy

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 | |


  Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
  Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
  And the profit and loss.
A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers.
As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320 Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.