{"product_id":"the-waste-land-and-other-poems-isbn-9780593313343","title":"The Waste Land and Other Poems","description":"\u003cb\u003eA Vintage Classics edition of T. S. Eliot's most groundbreaking poems\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.\" Those famous concluding lines of T. S. Eliot's \"The Hollow Men\" have resonated with readers for nearly a century. As with \"April is the cruelest month,\" from \u003ci\u003eThe Waste Land\u003c\/i\u003e and \"Do I dare disturb the universe?,\" from \"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,\" Eliot's words have permanently entered our cultural bloodstream. Through the poems in this volume, representing his first four published collections, Eliot reshaped modern literature with a daring and overpowering vision of a decaying civilization and the urgent need for spiritual renewal.T. S. (Thomas Stearns) ELIOT (1888-1965) was born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri, and spent many of his adult years in England. He worked for a bank while writing poetry, teaching, and reviewing, and was recognized as a major force in the literary world with his publication of \u003ci\u003eThe Waste Land\u003c\/i\u003e in 1922.The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eS’io credessi che mia risposta fosse\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ea persona che mai tornasse al mondo,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003equesta fiamma staria senza più scosse.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMa perciocchè che giammai di questo fondo\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003enon tornò vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003esenza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet us go then, you and I,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the evening is spread out against the sky\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike a patient etherised upon a table;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet us go, through certain half-deserted streets,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe muttering retreats\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf restless nights in one-night cheap hotels\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStreets that follow like a tedious argument\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf insidious intent\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo lead you to an overwhelming question . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, do not ask, “What is it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet us go and make our visit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the room the women come and go\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTalking of Michelangelo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLicked its tongue into the corners of the evening,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLingered upon the pools that stand in drains,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSlipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd seeing that it was a soft October night,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCurled once about the house, and fell asleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd indeed there will be time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor the yellow smoke that slides along the street\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRubbing its back upon the window-panes;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere will be time, there will be time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere will be time to murder and create,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd time for all the works and days of hands\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat lift and drop a question on your plate;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTime for you and time for me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd time yet for a hundred indecisions,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd for a hundred visions and revisions,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore the taking of a toast and tea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the room the women come and go\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTalking of Michelangelo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd indeed there will be time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTime to turn back and descend the stair,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith a bald spot in the middle of my hair—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDo I dare\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDisturb the universe?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a minute there is time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor I have known them all already, known them all—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHave known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have measured out my life with coffee spoons;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know the voices dying with a dying fall\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeneath the music from a farther room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo how should I presume?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I have known the eyes already, known them all—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen how should I begin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd how should I presume?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I have known the arms already, known them all—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArms that are braceleted and white and bare\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Is it perfume from a dress\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat makes me so digress?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd should I then presume?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd how should I begin?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* * * *\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd watched the smoke that rises from the pipes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI should have been a pair of ragged claws\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScuttling across the floors of silent seas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* * * *\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmoothed by long fingers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAsleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStretched on the floor, here beside you and me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShould I, after tea and cakes and ices,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHave the strength to force the moment to its crisis?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eand snicker,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd in short, I was afraid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd would it have been worth it, after all,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter the cups, the marmalade, the tea,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmong the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould it have been worth while,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo have bitten off the matter with a smile,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo have squeezed the universe into a ball\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo roll it towards some overwhelming question,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCome back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf one, settling a pillow by her head,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShould say: “That is not what I meant at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat is not it, at all.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd would it have been worth it, after all,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould it have been worth while,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd this, and so much more?—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is impossible to say just what I mean!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould it have been worth while\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf one, settling a pillow by her head,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShould say, “That is not what I meant at all;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That is not it, at all.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* * * *\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAm an attendant lord, one that will do\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo swell a progress, start a scene or two,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdvise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDeferential, glad to be of use,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePolitic, cautious, and meticulous;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFull of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt times, indeed, almost ridiculous—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlmost, at times, the Fool.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI grow old . . . I grow old . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI do not think that they will sing to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have seen them riding seaward on the waves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCombing the white hair of the waves blown back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the wind blows the water white and black.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe have lingered in the chambers of the sea\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTill human voices wake us, and we drown.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303837683941,"sku":"NP9780593313343","price":11.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593313343.jpg?v=1767742141","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-waste-land-and-other-poems-isbn-9780593313343","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}