En Amérique, professeur; En Angleterre, journaliste; C’est à grands pas et en sueur Que vous suivrez à peine ma piste. En Yorkshire, conférencier; A Londres, un peu banquier; (Vous me paierez bien la tête.) C’est à Paris que je me coiffe Casque noir de jemenfoutiste. En Allemagne, philosophe Surexcité par Emporheben Au grand air de Bergsteigleben; J’erre toujours de-ci de-là A divers coups de tra la la De Damas jusque à Omaha; Je célebrai mon jour de fête Dans un oasis d’Afrique, Vêtu d’une peau de girafe. On montrera mon cénotaphe Aux côtes brulantes de Mozambique. ODE _To you particularly, and to all the Volscians Great hurt and mischief._ Tired. Subterrene laughter synchronous With silence from the sacred wood And bubbling of the uninspired Mephitic river. Misunderstood The accents of the now retired Profession of the calamus. Tortured. When the bridegroom smoothed his hair There was blood upon the bed. Morning was already late. Children singing in the orchard (Io Hymen, Hymenæe) Succuba eviscerate. Tortuous. By arrangement with Perseus The fooled resentment of the dragon Sailing before the wind at dawn. Golden apocalypse. Indignant At the cheap extinction of his taking-off. Now lies he there Tip to tip washed beneath Charles’ Wagon. _PRUFROCK._ THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK _S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza più 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.