THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD by T. S. Eliot A continuation. . ... ..


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 where 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 his 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 stroke on the final count of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying;
"Stetson!"
"You where with me in the ships of 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 frere!"


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