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 etherized 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 that 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, The love song of J. Alfred
Prufrock
