Waste of Land

Waste of Land

I. The Burial of the Dead

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.

T. S. Eliot, “The Waste Land” from Collected Poems: 1909-1962. Copyright © 2020 by T. S. Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber, Ltd.. Source: Collected Poems: 1909-1962 (Faber and Faber, Ltd., 2020)

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land