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#lang pollen
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APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
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Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
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Memory and desire, stirring
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Dull roots with spring rain.
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Winter kept us warm, covering
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Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
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A little life with dried tubers.
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Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
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With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
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And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
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And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
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Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
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And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
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My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
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And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
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Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
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In the mountains, there you feel free.
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I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
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What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
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Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
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You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
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A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
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And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
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And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
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There is shadow under this red rock,
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(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
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And I will show you something different from either
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Your shadow at morning striding behind you
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Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
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I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
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Frisch weht der Wind
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Der Heimat zu,
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Mein Irisch Kind,
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Wo weilest du?
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“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
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They called me the hyacinth girl.”
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—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
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Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
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Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
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Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
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Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
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Öd’ und leer das Meer.
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Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
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Had a bad cold, nevertheless
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Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
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With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
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Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
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(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
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Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
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The lady of situations.
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Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
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And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
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Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
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Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
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The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
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I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
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Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
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Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
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One must be so careful these days.
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Unreal City,
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Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
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A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
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I had not thought death had undone so many.
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Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
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And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
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Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
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To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
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With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
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There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson!
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You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
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That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
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Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
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Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
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Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
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Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
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You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”
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