VOul-, 
 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 

 ''f 0 ['. ' <V3 X1C kd-tdo cLt&s }I ; 1-UmAC 
 ffo-ihL - c4to OA-vd 6/nxdftK.^ CA 
 
 QM><Mshn itfsho. 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 BY 
 
 T. S. ELIOT 
 
 “NAM Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis 
 vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: 
 'LifivXka. ri OiXeiC j respondebat ilia: airodavelv OcTlu.” 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HORACE LIVERIGHT 
 
Copyright, 1922, by 
 HORACE LIVERIGHT 
 
 Third Printing, August, 1928 
 
 THE G^TTY RESEARCH 
 INSTITUTE LIBRARY 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD 
 
 PRIL 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 Hof- 
 garten, io 
 
 [9l 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 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. 
 
 What are the roots that clutch, what 
 branches grow 
 
 Out of this stony rubbish? Son of 
 man, 20 
 
 [10] 
 
THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD 
 
 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 5 
 
 [ii] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 I will show you fear in a handful of 
 dust. 30 
 
 Frisch weht der Wind 
 Der Heimat zu y 
 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, 40 
 
 Looking into the heart of light, the 
 silence. 
 
 [12] 
 
THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD 
 
 Od* 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. 50 
 
 Here is the man with three staves, and 
 here the Wheel, 
 
 [13] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 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. Equi- 
 tone, 
 
 Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: 
 
 One must be so careful these days. 
 
 Unreal City, 
 
 Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, 
 [i4] 
 
 60 
 
THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD 
 
 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! 
 
 [ i5 ] 
 
 70 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 “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? 
 
 “Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend 
 to men, 
 
 “Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! 
 
 “You! hypocrite lecteur! —mon sem- 
 blable, — mon frere! ” 
 
 [ 16 ] 
 
II. A GAME OF CHESS 
 
 ^T\HE Chair she sat in, like a bur- 
 nished throne, 
 
 Glowed on the marble, where the glass 
 Held up by standards wrought with 
 fruited vines 
 
 From which a golden Cupidon peeped 
 
 OUt 80 
 
 (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; 
 
 [17] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 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 9° 
 
 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 carved dolphin swam. 
 
 [18] 
 
A GAME OF CHESS 
 
 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 3 yet there the nightin¬ 
 gale 100 
 
 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. 
 
 [19] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 Under the firelight, under the brush, her 
 hair 
 
 Spread out in fiery points 
 Glowed into words, then would be sav¬ 
 agely still. no 
 
 “My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. 
 Stay with me. 
 
 “Speak to me. Why do you never speak? 
 Speak. 
 
 “What are you thinking of? What think¬ 
 ing? What? 
 
 “I never know what you are thinking. 
 Think.” 
 
 I think we are in rats’ alley 
 
 Where the dead men lost their bones. 
 
 [20] 
 
A GAME OF CHESS 
 
 “What is that noise?” 
 
 The wind under the door. 
 “What is that noise now? What is the 
 wind doing?” 
 
 Nothing again nothing. 120 
 
 “Do 
 
 “You know nothing? Do you see nothing? 
 
 Do you remember 
 “Nothing?” 
 
 I remember 
 
 Those are pearls that were his eyes. 
 
 “Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing 
 in your head? ” 
 
 But 
 
 OOOO that Shakespeherian Rag — 
 
 It's so elegant 
 
 So intelligent 130 
 
 [21] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 “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 LiPs husband got demobbed, I 
 
 said — 
 
 [22] 
 
A GAME OF CHESS 
 
 I didn’t mince my words, I said to her 
 myself, 140 
 
 Hurry up please its time 
 
 Now Albert’s coming back, make your¬ 
 self 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, 
 
 [23] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 And if you dont give it him, there's others 
 will, I said. 
 
 Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, 
 I said. 150 
 
 Then I'll know who to thank, she said, 
 and give me a straight look. 
 
 Hurry up please its time 
 
 If you dont 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 wont be for 
 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, 
 [24] 
 
A GAME OF CHESS 
 
 It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she 
 said. 
 
 (She’s had five already, and nearly died 
 of young George.) 160 
 
 The chemist said it would be alright, but 
 I’ve never been the same. 
 
 You are a proper fool, I said. 
 
 Well, if Albert wont leave you alone, 
 there it is, I said, 
 
 What you get married for if you dont 
 want children? 
 
 Hurry up please its time 
 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 — 
 
 [25] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 Hurry up please its time 
 Hurry up please its time 
 Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight 
 May. Goonight. 170 
 
 Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. 
 
 Good night, ladies, good night, sweet 
 ladies, good night, good night. 
 
 [26] 
 
III. THE FIRE SERMON 
 
 F I "^HE 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, sand¬ 
 wich papers, 
 
 Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, ciga¬ 
 rette ends 
 
 Or other testimony of summer nights. 
 
 The nymphs are departed. 
 
 [ 27 ] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 And their friends, the loitering heirs of 
 city directors 5 180 
 
 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 
 [28] 
 
THE FIRE SERMON 
 
 On a winter evening round behind the 
 gashouse. 190 
 
 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 
 
 [29] 
 
 200 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 They wash their feet in soda water 
 Et O ces voix d’enfants , chantant dans la 
 coupolel 
 
 Twit twit twit 
 Jug J u g j u g j u g jug jug 
 
 So rudely forc’d. 
 
 Tereu 
 
 Unreal City 
 
 Under the brown fog of a winter noon 
 
 Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant 
 
 Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210 
 
 C.i.f. London: documents at sight, 
 
 Asked me in demotic French 
 
 To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel 
 [30] 
 
THE FIRE SERMON 
 
 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 be¬ 
 tween two lives, 
 
 Old man with wrinkled female breasts, 
 can see 
 
 At the violet hour, the evening hour that 
 strives 220 
 
 Homeward, and brings the sailor home 
 from sea, 
 
 The typist home at teatime, clears her 
 
 breakfast, lights 
 
 [ 3i ] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 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. 230 
 
 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, 
 [ 32 ] 
 
THE FIRE SERMON 
 
 Endeavours to engage her in caresses 
 Which still are unreproved, if undesired. 
 Flushed and decided, he assaults at once 5 
 Exploring hands encounter no defence ; 240 
 
 His vanity requires no response, 
 
 And makes a welcome of indifference. 
 (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all 
 Enacted on this same divan or bed 5 
 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; 
 
 [ 33 ] 
 
 250 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 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 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 hear 
 
 Beside a public bar in Lower Thames 
 Street, 260 
 
 [ 34 ] 
 
THE FIRE SERMON 
 
 The pleasant whining of a mandoline 
 And a clatter and a chatter from within 
 Where fishermen 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 270 
 
 Wide 
 
 To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. 
 
 The barges wash 
 
 [ 35 ] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 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 
 
 [36] 
 
 280 
 
THE FIRE SERMON 
 
 Weialala leia 290 
 
 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. 300 
 
 I can connect 
 
 Nothing with nothing. 
 
 [ 37 ] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 The broken fingernails of dirty hands. 
 
 My people humble people who expect 
 Nothing.” 
 
 la la 
 
 To Carthage then I came 
 
 Burning burning burning burning 
 O Lord Thou pluckest me out 
 O Lord Thou pluckest 310 
 
 burning 
 
 [38 ] 
 
IV. DEATH BY WATER 
 
 T^HLEBAS 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 passed the stages of his age and youth 
 Entering the whirlpool. 
 
 Gentile or Jew 
 
 O you who turn the wheel and look to 
 
 windward, 320 
 
 Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome 
 
 and tall as you. 
 
 [ 39 ] 
 
V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID 
 FTER 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 330 
 
 Here is no water but only rock 
 Rock and no water and the sandy road 
 
 [40] 
 
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID 
 
 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 mount in mouth of carious teeth 
 that cannot spit 
 
 Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340 
 
 There is not even silence in the moun¬ 
 tains 
 
 [41] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 But dry sterile thunder without rain 
 There is not even solitude in the moun¬ 
 tains 
 
 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 350 
 
 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 
 [42] 
 
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID 
 
 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 360 
 
 But when I look ahead up the white road 
 There is always another one walking be¬ 
 side 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? 
 
 [ 43 ] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 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 370 
 
 What is the city over the mountains 
 Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet 
 air 
 
 Falling towers 
 
 Jerusalem Athens Alexandria 
 
 Vienna London 
 
 Unreal 
 
 A woman drew her long black hair out 
 tight 
 
 [44] 
 
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID 
 
 And fiddled whisper music on those strings 
 And bats with baby faces in the violet light 
 Whistled, and beat their wings 380 
 
 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. 
 
 [45] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 It has no windows, and the door swings, 
 Dry bones can harm no one. 390 
 
 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 
 
 Da 400 
 
 Datta: what have we given? 
 
 My friend, blood shaking my heart 
 
 The awful daring of a moment’s surrender 
 [46] 
 
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID 
 
 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 
 
 Da 410 
 
 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, aetherial rumours 
 [ 47 ] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus 
 Da 
 
 Damyata: The boat responded 
 Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and 
 oar 
 
 The sea was calm, your heart would have 
 responded 420 
 
 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 
 
 [48] 
 
WHAT THE THUNDER SAID 
 
 Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina 
 Quanio flam ceu chelidon — O swallow 
 swallow 
 
 Le Prince <PAquitaine a la tour abolie 
 These fragments I have shored against my 
 ruins 430 
 
 Why then lie fit you. Hieronymo’s mad 
 againe. 
 
 Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. 
 
 Shantih shantih shantih 
 
 I 49] 
 

 
 
NOTES 
 

 
 ■ 
 
NOTES 
 
 N OT only the title, but the plan and a 
 good deal of the incidental symbolism 
 of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. 
 Weston’s book on the Grail legend: From 
 Ritual to Romance (Macmillan). Indeed, so 
 deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston’s book will 
 elucidate the difficulties of the poem much 
 better than my notes can do 5 and I recom¬ 
 mend it (apart from the great interest of the 
 book itself) to any who think such elucidation 
 of the poem worth the trouble. To another 
 work of anthropology I am indebted in general, 
 one which has influenced our generation pro¬ 
 foundly 5 I mean The Golden Bough; I have 
 used especially the two volumes Atthis Adonis 
 Osiris . Anyone who is acquainted with these 
 works will immediately recognise in the poem 
 certain references to vegetation ceremonies. 
 [53] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD 
 
 Line 20. Cf. Ezekiel II, i. 
 
 23. Cf. Ecclesiastes XII, v. 
 
 31. V. Tristan und Isolde , I, verses 5-8. 
 
 42. Id. Ill, verse 24. 
 
 46. I am not familiar with the exact consti¬ 
 tution of the Tarot pack of cards, from which 
 I have obviously departed to suit my own con¬ 
 venience. The Hanged Man, a member of 
 the traditional pack, fits my purpose in two 
 ways: because he is associated in my mind with 
 the Hanged God of Frazer, and because I 
 associate him with the hooded figure in the 
 passage of the disciples to Emmaus in Part V. 
 The Phoenician Sailor and the Merchant ap¬ 
 pear later 5 also the “crowds of people,” and 
 Death by Water is executed in Part IV. The 
 Man with Three Staves (an authentic mem¬ 
 ber of the Tarot pack) I associate, quite arbi¬ 
 trarily, with the Fisher King himself. 
 
 60. Cf. Baudelaire: 
 
 “Fourmillante cite, cite pleine de reves, 
 
 C 54 1 
 
NOTES 
 
 “Ou le spectre en plein jour raccroche le 
 passant.” 
 
 63. Cf. Inferno III, 55-57: 
 
 “si lunga tratta 
 di gente, ch’io non avrei mai creduto 
 che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta.” 
 
 64. Cf. Inferno IV, 25-27: 
 
 “Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare, 
 
 “non avea pianto, ma’ che di sospiri, 
 
 “che l’aura eterna facevan tremare.” 
 
 68. A phenomenon which I have often 
 noticed. 
 
 74. Cf. the Dirge in Webster’s White Devil . 
 
 76. V. Baudelaire, Preface to Fleurs du Mol. 
 
 II. A GAME OF CHESS 
 
 77. Cf. Antony and Cleopatra, II, ii, 1 . 190. 
 92. Laquearia. V. Aeneid y I, 726: 
 
 dependent lychni laquearibus aureis 
 incensi, et noctem flammis funalia vincunt. 
 [55] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 98. Sylvan scene. V. Milton, Paradise Lost , 
 
 IV, 140. 
 
 99. V. Ovid, Metamorphoses, VI, Phil¬ 
 omela. 
 
 100. Cf. Part III 1 . 204. 
 
 115. Cf. Part III 1 . 195. 
 
 118. Cf. Webster: “Is the wind in that door 
 still?” 
 
 126. Cf. Part I 1 . 37, 48. 
 
 138. Cf. the game of chess in Middleton’s 
 Women beware Women. 
 
 III. THE FIRE SERMON 
 
 176. V. Spenser, Prothalamion. 
 
 192. Cf. The Tempest, I, ii. 
 
 196. Cf. Day, Parliament of Bees: 
 
 “When of the sudden, listening, you shall hear, 
 “A noise of horns and hunting, which shall 
 
 bring 
 
 “Actaeon to Diana in the spring, 
 
 “Where all shall see her naked skin . . .” 
 
 197. Cf. Marvell, To His Coy Mistress. 
 
 [ 56 ] 
 
NOTES 
 
 199. I do not know the origin of the ballad 
 from which these lines are taken j it was re¬ 
 ported to me from Sydney, Australia. 
 
 202. V. Verlaine, Parsifal . 
 
 210. The currants were quoted at a price 
 Carriage and insurance free to London” 5 
 and the Bill of Lading etc. were to be handed 
 to the buyer upon payment of the sight 
 draft. 
 
 218. Tiresias, although a mere spectator 
 and not indeed a “character,” is yet the most 
 important personage in the poem, uniting 
 all the rest. Just as the one-eyed merchant, 
 seller of currants, melts into the Phoenician 
 Sailor, and the latter is not wholly distinct 
 from Ferdinand Prince of Naples, so all the 
 women are one woman, and the two sexes 
 meet in Tiresias. What Tiresias sees , in fact, 
 is the substance of the poem. The whole 
 passage from Ovid is of great anthropological 
 interest: 
 
 . . . Cum Iunone iocos et maior vestra 
 profecto est 
 
 [57] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 Quam, quae contingit maribus’, dixisse, 
 ‘voluptas.’ 
 
 Ilia negatj placuit quae sit sententia docti 
 Quaerere Tiresiae: venus huic erat utraque 
 nota. 
 
 Nam duo magnorum viridi coeuntia silva 
 Corpora serpentum baculi violaverat ictu 
 Deque viro factus, mirabile, femina septem 
 Egerat autumnos; octavo rursus eosdem 
 Vidit et ‘est vestrae si tanta potentia plagae,* 
 Dixit ‘ut auctoris sortem in contraria mutet, 
 Nunc quoque vos feriamP percussis anguibus 
 isdem 
 
 Forma prior rediit genetivaque venit imago. 
 Arbiter hie igitur sumptus de lite iocosa 
 Dicta Iovis firmatj gravius Saturnia iusto 
 Nec pro materia fertur doluisse suique 
 Iudicis aeterna damnavit lumina nocte, 
 
 At pater omnipotens (neque enim licet inrita 
 cuiquam 
 
 Facta dei fecisse deo) pro lumine adempto 
 Scire futura dedit poenamque levavit honore. 
 221. This may not appear as exact as 
 [58] 
 
NOTES 
 
 Sappho’s lines, but I had in mind the “long¬ 
 shore” or “dory” fisherman, who returns at 
 nightfall. 
 
 253. V. Goldsmith, the song in The Vicar 
 of Wakefield, 
 
 257. V. The Tempest, as above. 
 
 264. The interior of St. Magnus Martyr is 
 to my mind one of the finest among Wren’s 
 interiors. See The Proposed Demolition of 
 Nineteen City Churches: (P. S. King & Son 
 Ltd.). 
 
 266. The Song of the (three) Thames- 
 daughters begins here. From line 292 to 306 
 inclusive they speak in turn. V. Gotterdam- 
 merung, III, i: the Rhinedaughters. 
 
 279. V. Froude, Elizabeth Vol. I, ch. iv, 
 letter of De Quadra to Philip of Spain: 
 
 “In the afternoon we were in a barge, watch¬ 
 ing the games on the river. (The queen) was 
 alone with Lord Robert and myself on the 
 poop, when they began to talk nonsense, and 
 went so far that Lord Robert at last said, as I 
 was on the spot there was no reason why they 
 should not be married if the queen pleased.” 
 
 [59] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 293. Cf. Purgatorio, V. 133: 
 
 “Ricorditi di me, che son la Piaj 
 “Siena mi fe’, disfecemi Maremma.” 
 
 307. V. St. Augustine’s Confessions: “to 
 Carthage then I came, where a cauldron of 
 unholy loves sang all about mine ears.” 
 
 308. The complete text of the Buddha’s 
 Fire Sermon (which corresponds in importance 
 to the Sermon on the Mount) from which 
 these words are taken, will be found translated 
 in the late Henry Clarke Warren’s Buddhism 
 in Translation (Harvard Oriental Series). Mr. 
 Warren was one of the great pioneers of 
 Buddhist studies in the Occident. 
 
 312. From St. Augustine’s Confessions 
 again. The collocation of these two representa¬ 
 tives of eastern and western asceticism, as the 
 culmination of this part of the poem, is not an 
 accident. 
 
 [ 60 ] 
 
NOTES 
 
 y. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID 
 
 In the first part of Part V three themes are 
 employed: the journey to Emmaus, the ap¬ 
 proach to the Chapel Perilous (see Miss 
 Weston’s book) and the present decay of eastern 
 Europe. 
 
 357. This is Turdus aonalaschkae fallasiiy 
 the hermit-thrush which I have heard in 
 Quebec County. Chapman says (Handbook 
 of Birds of Eastern North America) “it is most 
 at home in secluded woodland and thickety 
 retreats. ... Its notes are not remarkable 
 for variety or volume, but in purity and sweet¬ 
 ness of tone and exquisite modulation they are 
 unequaled.” Its “water-dripping song” is 
 justly celebrated. 
 
 360. The following lines were stimulated by 
 the account of one of the Antarctic expeditions 
 (I forget which, but I think one of Shackle- 
 ton’s): it was related that the party of ex¬ 
 plorers, at the extremity of their strength, 
 [61] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 had the constant delusion that there was one 
 more member than could actually be counted. 
 
 366-76. Cf. Hermann Hesse, Blick ins 
 Chaos: “Schon ist halb Europa, schon ist zumin- 
 dest der halbe Osten Europas auf dem Wege 
 zum Chaos, fahrt betrunken im heiligem Wahn 
 am Abgrund entlang und singt dazu, singt be¬ 
 trunken und hymnisch wie Dmitri Kara- 
 masoff sang. Ueber diese Lieder lacht der 
 Burger beleidigt, der Heilige und Seher hort 
 sie mit Traiien.” 
 
 401. “Datta, dayadfivam, damyata” (Give, 
 sympathise, control). The fable of the mean¬ 
 ing of the Thunder is found in the Brihada - 
 rany aka—Upanishad, 5, 1. A translation is 
 found in Deussen’s Sechzig Upanishads des 
 Veda y p. 489. 
 
 407. Cf. Webster, The White Devil, V. vi: 
 
 “. . . they’ll remarry 
 
 Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere 
 the spider 
 
 Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs.” 
 
 [ 62 ] 
 
NOTES 
 
 411. Cf. Inferno , XXXI 11,46: 
 
 “ed io sentii chiavar Puscio di sotto 
 alPorribile torre.” 
 
 Also F. H. Bradley, A'p'pearance and Reality y 
 p. 346. 
 
 “My external sensations are no less private to 
 myself than are my thoughts or my feelings. 
 In either case my experience falls within my 
 own circle, a circle closed on the outside 3 and, 
 with all its elements alike, every sphere is 
 opaque to the others which surround it. . . . 
 In brief, regarded as an existence which ap¬ 
 pears in a soul, the whole world for each is 
 peculiar and private to that soul.” 
 
 424. V. Weston: From Ritual to Romance; 
 chapter on the Fisher King. 
 
 427. V. Rurgatorioy XXVI, 148. 
 
 “ ‘Ara vos prec, per aquella valor 
 ‘que vos guida al som de Pescalina, 
 ‘sovegna vos a temps de ma dolor.’ 
 
 Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina.” 
 
 [ 63 ] 
 
THE WASTE LAND 
 
 428. V. Pervigilium Veneris. Cf. Philomela 
 in Parts II and III. 
 
 429. V. Gerard de Nerval, Sonnet El 
 Desdichado. 
 
 431. V. Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy. 
 
 433. Shantih. Repeated as here, a formal 
 ending to an Upanishad. “The Peace which 
 passeth understanding” is a feeble translation 
 of the content of this word. 
 
 [ 64 ]