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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
               S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
               A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
               Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
               Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
               Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
               Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

          Let us go then, you and I, 
          When the evening is spread out against the sky 
          Like a patient etherised upon a table; 
          Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, 
          The muttering retreats 
          Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels 
          And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: 
          Streets that follow like a tedious argument 
          Of insidious intent 
          To lead you to an overwhelming question. . . 
          Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" 
          Let us go and make our visit. 

          In the room the women come and go 
          Talking of Michelangelo. 

          The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes 
          The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes 
          Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening 
          Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, 
          Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, 
          Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 
          And seeing that it was a soft October night, 
          Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. 

          And indeed there will be time 
          For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, 
          Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 
          There will be time, there will be time 
          To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; 
          There will be time to murder and create, 
          And time for all the works and days of hands 
          That lift and drop a question on your plate; 
          Time for you and time for me, 
          And time yet for a hundred indecisions 
          And for a hundred visions and revisions, 
          Before the taking of a toast and tea. 

          In the room the women come and go 
          Talking of Michelangelo. 

          And indeed there will be time 
          To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" 
          Time to turn back and descend the stair, 
          With a bald spot in the middle of my hair -- 
          [They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"] 
          My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, 
          My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin -- 
          [They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"] 
          Do I dare 
          Disturb the universe? 
          In a minute there is time 
          For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. 

          For I have known them all already, known them all: -- 
          Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 
          I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; 
          I know the voices dying with a dying fall 
          Beneath the music from a farther room. 
               So how should I presume? 

          And I have known the eyes already, known them all -- 
          The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, 
          And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, 
          When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, 
          Then how should I begin 
          To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 
               And how should I presume? 

          And I have known the arms already, known them all -- 
          Arms that are braceleted and white and bare 
          [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] 
          Is it perfume from a dress 
          That makes me so digress? 
          Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. 
               And should I then presume? 
               And how should I begin? 

               . . . . .

          Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 
          And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes 
          Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . . 

          I should have been a pair of ragged claws 
          Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. 

               . . . . .

          And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 
          Smoothed by long fingers, 
          Asleep . . tired . . or it malingers, 
          Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. 
          Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, 
          Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 
          But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, 
          Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a 
               platter, 
          I am no prophet -- and here's no great matter; 
          I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, 
          And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 
          And in short, I was afraid. 

          And would it have been worth it, after all, 
          After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, 
          Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, 
          Would it have been worth while, 
          To have bitten off the matter with a smile, 
          To have squeezed the universe into a ball 
          To roll it toward some overwhelming question, 
          To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead, 
          Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all" -- 
          If one, settling a pillow by her head, 
               Should say, "That is not what I meant at all. 
               That is not it, at all." 

          And would it have been worth it, after all, 
          Would it have been worth while, 
          After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, 
          After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along 
               the floor -- 
          And this, and so much more? -- 
          It is impossible to say just what I mean! 
          But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 
          Would it have been worth while 
          If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, 
          And turning toward the window, should say: 
               "That is not it at all, 
               That is not what I meant, at all." 

               . . . . .

          No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; 
          Am an attendant lord, one that will do 
          To swell a progress, start a scene or two 
          Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, 
          Deferential, glad to be of use, 
          Politic, cautious, and meticulous; 
          Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; 
          At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -- 
          Almost, at times, the Fool. 

          I grow old . . . I grow old . . . 
          I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. 

          Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? 
          I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. 
          I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. 

          I do not think they will sing to me. 

          I have seen them riding seaward on the waves 
          Combing the white hair of the waves blown back 
          When the wind blows the water white and black. 

          We have lingered in the chambers of the sea 
          By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 
          Till human voices wake us, and we drown. 

               T. S. Eliot

A Ballade of an Anti-Puritan

          They spoke of Progress spiring round, 
          Of light and Mrs Humphrey Ward-- 
          It is not true to say I frowned, 
          Or ran about the room and roared; 
          I might have simply sat and snored-- 
          I rose politely in the club 
          And said, `I feel a little bored; 
          Will someone take me to a pub?' 

          The new world's wisest did surround 
          Me; and it pains me to record 
          I did not think their views profound, 
          Or their conclusions well assured; 
          The simple life I can't afford, 
          Besides, I do not like the grub-- 
          I want a mash and sausage, `scored'-- 
          Will someone take me to a pub? 

          I know where Men can still be found, 
          Anger and clamorous accord, 
          And virtues growing from the ground, 
          And fellowship of beer and board, 
          And song, that is a sturdy cord, 
          And hope, that is a hardy shrub, 
          And goodness, that is God's last word-- 
          Will someone take me to a pub? 

                        Envoi 
          Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword 
          To see the sort of knights you dub-- 
          Is that the last of them--O Lord 
          Will someone take me to a pub? 

               G.K. Chesterton


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