The Waste Land



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.    What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow  Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,


You cannot say, or guess, for you know only  A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,  And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,  And the dry stone no sound of water. Only  There is shadow under this red rock,


(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),  And I will show you something different from either  Your shadow at morning striding behind you  Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;  I will show you fear in a handful of dust.


        Frisch weht der Wind          Der Heimat zu,          Mein Irisch Kind,          Wo weilest du?  “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;


They called me the hyacinth girl.”  —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,  Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not  Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither  Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,


Looking into the heart of light, the silence.  Öd’ und leer das Meer.    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!”



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© Jean-Michel Frémont