III. THE FIRE SERMONThe river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leafClutch and sink into the wet bank. The windCrosses 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 endsOr other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180Departed, 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 hearThe rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.A rat crept softly through the vegetationDragging its slimy belly on the bankWhile I was fishing in the dull canalOn a winter evening round behind the gashouse 190Musing upon the king my brother’s wreckAnd on the king my father’s death before him.White bodies naked on the low damp groundAnd 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 hearThe sound of horns and motors, which shall bringSweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.O the moon shone bright on Mrs. PorterAnd on her daughter 200They wash their feet in soda waterEt O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!Twit twit twitJug jug jug jug jug jugSo rudely forc’d.TereuUnreal CityUnder the brown fog of a winter noonMr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchantUnshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210C.i.f. London: documents at sight,Asked me in demotic FrenchTo luncheon at the Cannon Street HotelFollowed by a weekend at the Metropole.At the violet hour, when the eyes and backTurn upward from the desk, when the human engine waitsLike a taxi throbbing waiting,I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can seeAt the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lightsHer stove, and lays out food in tins.Out of the window perilously spreadHer 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 dugsPerceived the scene, and foretold the rest—I too awaited the expected guest. 230He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,One of the low on whom assurance sitsAs 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 caressesWhich still are unreproved, if undesired.Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240His vanity requires no response,And makes a welcome of indifference.(And I Tiresias have foresuffered allEnacted on this same divan or bed;I who have sat by Thebes below the wallAnd 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; 250Her 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 andPaces about her room again, alone,She smooths 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 hearBeside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260The pleasant whining of a mandolineAnd a clatter and a chatter from withinWhere fishmen lounge at noon: where the wallsOf Magnus Martyr holdInexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.The river sweatsOil and tarThe barges driftWith the turning tideRed sails 270WideTo leeward, swing on the heavy spar.The barges washDrifting logsDown Greenwich reachPast the Isle of Dogs.Weialala leiaWallala leialalaElizabeth and LeicesterBeating oars 280The stern was formedA gilded shellRed and goldThe brisk swellRippled both shoresSouthwest windCarried down streamThe peal of bellsWhite towersWeialala leia 290Wallala leialala“Trams and dusty trees.Highbury bore me. Richmond and KewUndid me. By Richmond I raised my kneesSupine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heartUnder my feet. After the eventHe wept. He promised ‘a new start’.I made no comment. What should I resent?”“On Margate Sands. 300I can connectNothing with nothing.The broken fingernails of dirty hands.My people humble people who expectNothing.”la laTo Carthage then I cameBurning burning burning burningO Lord Thou pluckest me outO Lord Thou pluckest 310burning
The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leafClutch and sink into the wet bank. The windCrosses 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 endsOr other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180Departed, 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 hearThe rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.A rat crept softly through the vegetationDragging its slimy belly on the bankWhile I was fishing in the dull canalOn a winter evening round behind the gashouse 190Musing upon the king my brother’s wreckAnd on the king my father’s death before him.White bodies naked on the low damp groundAnd 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 hearThe sound of horns and motors, which shall bringSweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.O the moon shone bright on Mrs. PorterAnd on her daughter 200They wash their feet in soda waterEt O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!Twit twit twitJug jug jug jug jug jugSo rudely forc’d.TereuUnreal CityUnder the brown fog of a winter noonMr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchantUnshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210C.i.f. London: documents at sight,Asked me in demotic FrenchTo luncheon at the Cannon Street HotelFollowed by a weekend at the Metropole.At the violet hour, when the eyes and backTurn upward from the desk, when the human engine waitsLike a taxi throbbing waiting,I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can seeAt the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lightsHer stove, and lays out food in tins.Out of the window perilously spreadHer 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 dugsPerceived the scene, and foretold the rest—I too awaited the expected guest. 230He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,One of the low on whom assurance sitsAs 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 caressesWhich still are unreproved, if undesired.Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240His vanity requires no response,And makes a welcome of indifference.(And I Tiresias have foresuffered allEnacted on this same divan or bed;I who have sat by Thebes below the wallAnd 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; 250Her 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 andPaces about her room again, alone,She smooths 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 hearBeside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260The pleasant whining of a mandolineAnd a clatter and a chatter from withinWhere fishmen lounge at noon: where the wallsOf Magnus Martyr holdInexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.The river sweatsOil and tarThe barges driftWith the turning tideRed sails 270WideTo leeward, swing on the heavy spar.The barges washDrifting logsDown Greenwich reachPast the Isle of Dogs.Weialala leiaWallala leialalaElizabeth and LeicesterBeating oars 280The stern was formedA gilded shellRed and goldThe brisk swellRippled both shoresSouthwest windCarried down streamThe peal of bellsWhite towersWeialala leia 290Wallala leialala“Trams and dusty trees.Highbury bore me. Richmond and KewUndid me. By Richmond I raised my kneesSupine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heartUnder my feet. After the eventHe wept. He promised ‘a new start’.I made no comment. What should I resent?”“On Margate Sands. 300I can connectNothing with nothing.The broken fingernails of dirty hands.My people humble people who expectNothing.”la laTo Carthage then I cameBurning burning burning burningO Lord Thou pluckest me outO Lord Thou pluckest 310burning