III. THE FIRE SERMON
                  THE river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
                  Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
                  Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. 175
                  Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
                  The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
                  Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
                  Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
                  And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180
                  Departed, have left no addresses.
                  By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...
                  Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
                  Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
                  But at my back in a cold blast I hear 185
                  The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
                  
                  A rat crept softly through the vegetation
                  Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
                  While I was fishing in the dull canal
                  On a winter evening round behind the gashouse 190
                  Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
                  And on the king my father's death before him.
                  White bodies naked on the low damp ground
                  And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
                  Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year. 195
                  But at my back from time to time I hear
                  The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
                  Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
                  O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
                  And on her daughter 200
                  They wash their feet in soda water
                  Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
                  
                  Twit twit twit
                  Jug jug jug jug jug jug
                  So rudely forc'd. 205
                  Tereu
                  
                  Unreal City
                  Under the brown fog of a winter noon
                  Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
                  Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210
                  C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
                  Asked me in demotic French
                  To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
                  Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.
                  
                  At the violet hour, when the eyes and back 215
                  Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
                  Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
                  I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
                  Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
                  At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220
                  Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
                  The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
                  Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
                  Out of the window perilously spread
                  Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, 225
                  On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
                  Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
                  I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
                  Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
                  I too awaited the expected guest. 230
                  He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
                  A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
                  One of the low on whom assurance sits
                  As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
                  The time is now propitious, as he guesses, 235
                  The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
                  Endeavours to engage her in caresses
                  Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
                  Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
                  Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240
                  His vanity requires no response,
                  And makes a welcome of indifference.
                  (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
                  Enacted on this same divan or bed;
                  I who have sat by Thebes below the wall 245
                  And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
                  Bestows on final patronising kiss,
                  And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...
                  
                  She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
                  Hardly aware of her departed lover; 250
                  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 and
                  Paces about her room again, alone,
                  She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, 255
                  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 hear
                  Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260
                  The pleasant whining of a mandoline
                  And a clatter and a chatter from within
                  Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
                  Of Magnus Martyr hold
                  Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. 265
                  
                        The river sweats
                        Oil and tar
                        The barges drift
                        With the turning tide
                        Red sails 270
                        Wide
                        To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
                        The barges wash
                        Drifting logs
                        Down Greenwich reach 275
                        Past the Isle of Dogs.
                              Weialala leia
                              Wallala leialala
                  
                        Elizabeth and Leicester
                        Beating oars 280
                        The stern was formed
                        A gilded shell
                        Red and gold
                        The brisk swell
                        Rippled both shores 285
                        Southwest wind
                        Carried down stream
                        The peal of bells
                        White towers
                              Weialala leia 290
                              Wallala leialala
                  
                  'Trams and dusty trees.
                  Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
                  Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
                  Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.' 295
                  'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
                  Under my feet. After the event
                  He wept. He promised "a new start".
                  I made no comment. What should I resent?'
                  'On Margate Sands. 300
                  I can connect
                  Nothing with nothing.
                  The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
                  My people humble people who expect
                  Nothing.' 305
                        la la
                  
                  To Carthage then I came
                  
                  Burning burning burning burning
                  O Lord Thou pluckest me out
                  O Lord Thou pluckest 310
                  
                  burning
                  
                  IV. DEATH BY WATER

                  PHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
                  Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
                  And the profit and loss.
                                            A current under sea 315
                  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.
                  
                  V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID

                  AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
                  After the frosty silence in the gardens
                  After the agony in stony places
                  The shouting and the crying 325
                  Prison and place and reverberation
                  Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
                  He who was living is now dead
                  We who were living are now dying
                  With a little patience 330
                  
                  Here is no water but only rock
                  Rock and no water and the sandy road
                  The road winding above among the mountains
                  Which are mountains of rock without water
                  If there were water we should stop and drink 335
                  Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
                  Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
                  If there were only water amongst the rock
                  Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
                  Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340
                  There is not even silence in the mountains
                  But dry sterile thunder without rain
                  There is not even solitude in the mountains
                  But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
                  From doors of mudcracked houses
                                                   If there were water 345
                    And no rock
                    If there were rock
                    And also water
                    And water
                    A spring 350
                    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 355
                    Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
                    Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
                    But there is no water
                  
                  Who is the third who walks always beside you?
                  When I count, there are only you and I together 360
                  But when I look ahead up the white road
                  There is always another one walking beside you
                  Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
                  I do not know whether a man or a woman
                  —But who is that on the other side of you? 365
                  
                  What is that sound high in the air
                  Murmur of maternal lamentation
                  Who are those hooded hordes swarming
                  Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
                  Ringed by the flat horizon only 370
                  What is the city over the mountains
                  Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
                  Falling towers
                  Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
                  Vienna London 375
                  Unreal
                  
                  A woman drew her long black hair out tight
                  And fiddled whisper music on those strings
                  And bats with baby faces in the violet light
                  Whistled, and beat their wings 380
                  And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
                  And upside down in air were towers
                  Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
                  And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
                  
                  In this decayed hole among the mountains 385
                  In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
                  Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
                  There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
                  It has no windows, and the door swings,
                  Dry bones can harm no one. 390