| "APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding | |
| Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing | |
| Memory and desire, stirring | |
| Dull roots with spring rain. | |
| Winter kept us warm, covering | |
| Earth in forgetful snow, feeding | |
| A little life with dried tubers. | |
| Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee | |
| With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, | |
| And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, | |
| And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. | |
| Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. | |
| And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, | |
| My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, | |
| And I was frightened. He said, Marie, | |
| Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. | |
| In the mountains, there you feel free. | |
| I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter." |
"Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, | |
| Had a bad cold, nevertheless | |
| Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, | |
| With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, | |
| Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, | |
| (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) | |
| Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, | |
| The lady of situations. | |
| Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, | |
| And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, | |
| Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, | |
| Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find | |
| The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. | |
| I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. | |
| Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, | |
| Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: | |
One must be so careful these days."
|
"Unreal City, | |
| Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, | |
| A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, | |
| I had not thought death had undone so many. | |
| Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, | |
| And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. | |
| Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, | |
| To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours | |
| With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. | |
| There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson! | |
| 'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! | |
| 'That corpse you planted last year in your garden, | |
| 'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? | |
| 'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? | |
| 'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, | |
| 'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! | |
'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'"
 |
(fragmenten uit de meest poëtische, mooiste tekst ooit geschreven, door T. S. Eliot)
dorothy en sneeuwwitje
