OnlyThere is shadow under this red rock,(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),And I will show you something different from eitherYour shadow at morning striding behind youOr your shadow at evening rising to meet you;I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 0000004331 00000 n Click on headings, locations, characters, or foreign phrases to access descriptions, translations, and other supplementary information, or click blue line numbers to see Eliot's notes. Dayadhvam. The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. What thinking? You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—. The thunder that accompanies it ushers in the three-pronged dictum sprung from the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad: "Datta, dayadhvam, damyata": to give, to sympathize, to control. A little life with dried tubers. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. What the Thunder Said Summary and Analyses. A current under seaPicked his bones in whispers. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends. After the torchlight red on sweaty facesAfter the frosty silence in the gardensAfter the agony in stony placesThe shouting and the cryingPrison and palace and reverberationOf thunder of spring over distant mountainsHe who was living is now deadWe who were living are now dyingWith a little patienceHere is no water but only rockRock and no water and the sandy roadThe road winding above among the mountainsWhich are mountains of rock without waterIf there were water we should stop and drinkAmongst the rock one cannot stop or thinkSweat is dry and feet are in the sandIf there were only water amongst the rockDead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spitHere one can neither stand nor lie nor sitThere is not even silence in the mountainsBut dry sterile thunder without rainThere is not even solitude in the mountainsBut red sullen faces sneer and snarlFrom doors of mudcracked houses                                      If there were water   And no rock   If there were rock   And also water   And water   A spring   A pool among the rock   If there were the sound of water only   Not the cicada   And dry grass singing   But sound of water over a rock   Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees   Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop   But there is no waterWho is the third who walks always beside you?When I count, there are only you and I togetherBut when I look ahead up the white roadThere is always another one walking beside youGliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hoodedI do not know whether a man or a woman—But who is that on the other side of you?What is that sound high in the airMurmur of maternal lamentationWho are those hooded hordes swarmingOver endless plains, stumbling in cracked earthRinged by the flat horizon onlyWhat is the city over the mountainsCracks and reforms and bursts in the violet airFalling towersJerusalem Athens AlexandriaVienna LondonUnrealA woman drew her long black hair out tightAnd fiddled whisper music on those stringsAnd bats with baby faces in the violet lightWhistled, and beat their wingsAnd crawled head downward down a blackened wallAnd upside down in air were towersTolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hoursAnd voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.In this decayed hole among the mountainsIn the faint moonlight, the grass is singingOver the tumbled graves, about the chapelThere is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.It has no windows, and the door swings,Dry bones can harm no one.Only a cock stood on the rooftreeCo co rico co co ricoIn a flash of lightning. THE WASTE LAND BY TS ELLIOT – We are going to read the full text of the poem The Waste Land by T.S. Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused, And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air, That freshened from the window, these ascended.

.She turns and looks a moment in the glass,Hardly aware of her departed lover;Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”When lovely woman stoops to folly andPaces about her room again, alone,She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,And puts a record on the gramophone.“This music crept by me upon the waters”And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.O City city, I can sometimes hearBeside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,The pleasant whining of a mandolineAnd a clatter and a chatter from withinWhere fishmen lounge at noon: where the wallsOf Magnus Martyr holdInexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. )Bestows one final patronising kiss,And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives. Yes, bad. Yes, bad. This shifts into a barren landscape filled with rocks, but no water.

. Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights. hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”. Speak. The first three stanzas are set in a desolate and deserted place where it resembles a true waste land, emphasizing the dire need of society for salvation. What should I resent?”, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell, Picked his bones in whispers. The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered allEnacted on this same divan or bed;I who have sat by Thebes below the wallAnd walked among the lowest of the dead.

I. Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. After the frosty silence in the gardens. Lightning then the thunder Thunder, thunder Thunder Kids were laughing in my classes While I was scheming for the masses Who do you think you are? The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring. He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you. As mentioned above, it is one of the most important poems of the 20th century which is written by poet, essayist, publisher, playwright, literary critic and editor Thomas Sterns Elliot, also known as T. S. Ellliot. Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see.

0000001450 00000 n The last poem of the Waste Lands reveals four scenes. Here, said she,Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Do you see nothing? Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.

(And her only thirty-one. Damyata.

The first half of thesection builds to an apocalyptic climax, as suffering people become“hooded hordes swarming” and the “unreal” cities of Jerusalem, Athens,Alexandria, Vienna, and London are destroyed, rebuilt, and destroyedagain.

“My nerves are bad tonight. The first is that of Gethsemane when Jesus Christ was captured in the dead of night.