The Waste Land1922
T.S. Eliot

“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi
in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σίβνλλα τί ϴέλεις; respondebat illa: άπο ϴανεΐν ϴέλω.”

... and once I saw with my very own eyes the Sibyl at Cumae suspended in a jar
and when the boys asked her 'Sibyl, what do you want?' She replied, 'I want to die.'

Sibyls were prophetesses who were part of the mythology of several cultures in the ancient world, particularly Greece. They were usually associated with specific locations. Typically older women, often living in caves and associated with an ancient oracle or temple, their prophecies played significant roles in determining the course of events.

The Cumaean Sibyl prophesied by “singing the fates” and writing on oak leaves. These would be arranged inside the entrance of her cave, but if the wind blew and scattered them, she would not help to reassemble the leaves and recreate the original prophecy.

Although she was a mortal, the Sibyl lived about a thousand years. She attained this longevity when Apollo offered to grant her a wish in exchange for her virginity; she took a handful of sand and asked to live for as many years as the grains of sand she held. Later, after she refused the god's love, he allowed her body to wither away because she failed to ask for eternal youth. Her body grew smaller with age and eventually was kept in a jar (ampulla). Finally only her voice was left.

For Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro

The dedication is drawn from The Divine Comedy, the 14th century epic poem by Dante.

Eliot returns to this poem throughout The Waste Land.
Here, the dedication translates as “the better craftsman,” a reference to Canto 26 of the Purgatorio.

Dante refers to the poet Arnault Daniel, but Eliot passes the compliment on to Pound, who helped edit The Waste Land.​

Vivien, and indeed both of us, are completely worn out. I have never known anybody stick to

                                                              a thing with such persistence and courage, often with relapses which

made her feel that the whole thing was useless." T.S.E

                                                                                    What you get married for if you don't want children?

line written by Vivien Eliot

Various critics have done me the honour to interpret the poem in terms of criticism of the contemporary world.

They have considered it, indeed, an important piece of social criticism.

To me it was only the relief of a personal and wholly insignificant grouse against life.

It is just a piece of rhythmical grumbling.


     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 arch-duke'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.

                            Oed' 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,

​A calm onlooker facing towards the sea.

There's a possibility that he is a merchant or looking forward to a journey.

The three represents creation - looking forward to something with optimism - a mission.

This card symbolizes enterprise, trade, or commerce.
Keynotes: Achievement - venture - traveling - pursuing a journey
If the card is in reversed, it means the end of a task, toil, a cessation, and disappointment

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?
'O 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!'

 II.  A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
glowed on the marble, where the glass
held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
from which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
reflecting light upon the table as
the glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
from satin cases poured in rich profusion
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
unguent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused
and drowned the sense in odours
Stirred by the air
that freshened from the window, these ascended
in fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
flung their smoke into the laquearia,
stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
in which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam
Above the antique mantel was displayed,
as though a window gave upon the sylvan scene,
the change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
so rudely forced
Yet there the nightingale
filled all the desert with inviolable voice
and still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears
And other withered stumps of time
were told upon the walls
Staring forms
leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
spread out in fiery points,
glowed into words, then would be savagely still

'My nerves are bad to-night.  Yes, bad.  Stay with me.
'Speak to me.  Why do you never speak.  Speak.

'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking.  Think.'

I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

  'What it that noise?'

                       The wind under the door

'What is that noise now?  What is the wind doing?'

                       Nothing again nothing

'You know nothing?  Do you see nothing?  Do you remember


 I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes

'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'

O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag -
It's so elegant
So intelligent

'What shall I do now?  What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'with my hair down, so.  What shall we do tomorrow?
'What shall we ever do?'

                                  The hot water at ten
and if it rains, a closed car at four
and we shall play a game of chess,
pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door

When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said,
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself


"Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth".  He did, I was there.
"You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set" he said
"I swear, I can't bear to look at you"
"And no more can't I" I said "and think of poor Albert,
he's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
and if you don't give it him, there's others will" I said
"Oh is there" she said. "Something o' that" I said
"Then I'll know who to thank" she said and give me a straight look


If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for a lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be all right, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?


Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -


Goonight Bill.  Goonight Lou.  Goonight May.  Goonight.
Ta ta.  Goonight.  Goonight.

Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.


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.
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;
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
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
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.
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
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.


Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
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
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
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,
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.
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,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which are still unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
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
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one 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;
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,
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,
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.

          The river sweats
          Oil and tar
          The barges drift
          With the turning tide
          Red sails
          To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.

          The barges wash
          Drifting logs
          Down Greenwich reach
          Past the Isle of Dogs.

                   Weialala leia
                   Wallala leialala

          Elizabeth and Leicester
          Beating oars
          The stern was formed
          A gilded shell
          Red and gold
          The brisk swell
          Rippled both shores
          Southwest wind
          Carried down stream
          The peal of bells
          White towers

                   Weialala leia
                   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.'

         '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.
          I can connect
          Nothing with nothing.
          The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
          My people humble people who expect
          la la

          To Carthage then I came
          Burning burning burning burning
          O Lord Thou pluckest me out
          O Lord Thou pluckest


IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, 
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
                          A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers.  As he rose and fell
He passes the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
                         Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look windward,
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
Prison and palace 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

  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
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 not lie nor sit
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
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water 
A spring
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
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
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?

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
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London

 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
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
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.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning.  Then a damp gust
Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder

Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms

Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus

Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands

I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon - O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you.  Hieronymo's mad againe.

Datta.  Dayadhvam.  Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih