En l'an trentiesme de mon aage
　　Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beucs...
　　
　　Pipit sate upright in her chair
　　Some distance from where I was sitting;
　　Views of the Oxford Colleges
　　Lay on the table, with the knitting.
　　
　　Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,
　　Her grandfather and great great aunts,
　　Supported on the mantelpiece
　　An Invitation to the Dance.
　　......
　　I shall not want Honour in Heaven
　　For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney
　　And have talk with Coriolanus
　　And other heroes of that kidney.
　　
　　I shall not want Capital in Heaven
　　For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond:
　　We two shall lie together, lapt
　　In a five per cent Exchequer Bond.
　　
　　I shall not want Society in Heaven,
　　Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;
　　Her anecdotes will be more amusing
　　Than Pipit's experience could provide.
　　
　　I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:
　　Madame Blavatsky will instruct me
　　In the Seven Sacred Trances;
　　Piccarda de Donati will conduct me...
　　......
　　But where is the penny world I bought
　　To eat with Pipit behind the screen?
　　The red-eyed scavengers are creeping
　　From Kentish Town and Golder's Green;
　　
　　Where are the eagles and the trumpets?
　　
　　Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
　　Over buttered scones and crumpets
　　Weeping, weeping multitudes
　　Droop in a hundred A.B.C.'s

　　Miss Nancy Ellicott Strode across the hills and broke them,
　　Rode across the hills and broke them--
　　The barren New England hills--
　　Riding to hounds
　　Over the cow-pasture.
　　
　　Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked
　　And danced all the modern dances;
　　And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it,
　　But they knew that it was modern.
　　
　　Upon the glazen shelves kept watch
　　Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,
　　The army of unalterable law.

　　Phlebas 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,
　　Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

　　THE 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, sandwich papers,
　　Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
　　Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
　　And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
　　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
　　On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
　　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
　　They wash their feet in soda water
　　Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!
　　
　　Twit twit twit
　　Jug jug jug jug 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
　　C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
　　Asked me in demotic French
　　To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
　　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 between two lives,
　　Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
　　At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
　　Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
　　The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
　　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.
　　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,
　　Endeavours to engage her in caresses
　　Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
　　Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
　　Exploring hands encounter no defence;
　　His vanity requires no response,
　　And makes a welcome of indifference.
　　(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
　　Enacted on this same divan or bed;
　　I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
　　And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
　　Bestows on 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;
　　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 smoothes 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,
　　The pleasant whining of a mandoline
　　And a clatter and a chatter from within
　　Where fishmen 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
　　Wide
　　To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
　　The barges wash
　　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
　　Weialala leia
　　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.
　　I can connect
　　Nothing with nothing.
　　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
　　
　　burning

　　Thou hast nor youth nor age
　　But as it were an after dinner sleep
　　Dreaming of both.
　　
　　Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
　　Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
　　I was neither at the hot gates
　　Nor fought in the warm rain
　　Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
　　Bitten by flies, fought.
　　My house is a decayed house,
　　And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
　　Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
　　Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.
　　The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;
　　Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
　　The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
　　Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.
　　
　　I an old man,
　　A dull head among windy spaces.
　　
　　Signs are taken for wonders. "We would see a sign":
　　The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
　　Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
　　Came Christ the tiger
　　
　　
　　In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering Judas,
　　To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
　　Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
　　With caressing hands, at Limoges
　　Who walked all night in the next room;
　　By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
　　By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
　　Shifting the candles; Fraulein von Kulp
　　Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttles
　　Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,
　　An old man in a draughty house
　　Under a windy knob.
　　
　　After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
　　History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
　　And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
　　Guides us by vanities. Think now
　　She gives when our attention is distracted
　　And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
　　That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
　　What's not believed in, or if still believed,
　　In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
　　Into weak hands, what's thought can be dispensed with
　　Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think
　　Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
　　Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
　　Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
　　These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.
　　
　　The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
　　We have not reached conclusion, when I
　　Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last
　　I have not made this show purposelessly
　　And it is not by any concitation
　　Of the backward devils.
　　I would meet you upon this honestly.
　　I that was near your heart was removed therefrom
　　To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
　　I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
　　Since what is kept must be adulterated?
　　I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
　　How should I use it for your closer contact?
　　
　　These with a thousand small deliberations
　　Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,
　　Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
　　With pungent sauces, multiply variety
　　In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do,
　　Suspend its operations, will the weevil
　　Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled
　　Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear
　　In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits
　　Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,
　　White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
　　And an old man driven by the Trades
　　To a sleepy corner.
　　
　　Tenants of the house,
　　Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.

　　When Mr. Apollinax visited the United States
　　His laughter tinkled among the teacups.
　　I thought of Fragilion, that shy figure among the birch-trees,
　　And of Priapus in the shrubbery
　　Gaping at the lady in the swing.
　　In the palace of Mrs. Phlaccus, at Professor Channing-Cheetah's
　　He laughed like an irresponsible foetus.
　　Otis laughter was submarine and profound
　　Like the old man of the sea's
　　Hidden under coral islands
　　Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence,
　　Dropping from fingers of surf.
　　I looked for the head of Mr. Apollinax rolling under a chair
　　Or grinning over a screen
　　With seaweed in its hair.
　　I heard the beat of centaur's hoofs over the hard turf
　　As his dry and passionate talk devoured the afternoon.
　　"He is a charming man"--"But after all what did he mean?"--
　　"His pointed ears... He must be unbalanced,"--
　　"There was something he said that I might have challenged."
　　Of dowager Mrs. Phlaccus, and Professor and Mrs. Cheetah
　　I remember a slice of lemon, and a bitten macaroon.

　　Look, look, master, here comes two religions
　　caterpillars.
　　
　　The Jew of Malta.
　　
　　
　　Polyphiloprogenitive
　　The sapient sutlers of the Lord
　　Drift across the window-panes.
　　In the beginning was the Word.
　　
　　In the beginning was the Word.
　　Superfetation of to ev,
　　And at the mensual turn of time
　　Produced enervate Origen.
　　
　　A painter of the Umbrian school
　　Designed upon a gesso ground
　　The nimbus of the Baptized God.
　　The wilderness is cracked and browned
　　
　　But through the water pale and thin
　　Still shine the unoffending feet
　　And there above the painter set
　　The Father and the Paraclete.
　　.....
　　The sable presbyters approach
　　The avenue of penitence;
　　The young are red and pustular
　　Clutching piaculative pence.
　　
　　Under the penitential gates
　　Sustained by staring Seraphim
　　Where the souls of the devout
　　Burn invisible and dim.
　　
　　Along the garden-wall the bees
　　With hairy bellies pass between
　　The staminate and pistilate,
　　Blest office of the epicene.
　　
　　Sweeney shifts from ham to ham
　　Stirring the water in his bath.
　　The masters of the subtle schools
　　Are controversial, polymath.

　　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, Hymenaee)
　　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.

　　And the trees about me,
　　Let them be dry and leafless; let the rocks
　　Groan with continual surges; and behind me
　　Make all a desolation. Look, look, wenches!
　　
　　
　　Paint me a cavernous waste shore
　　Cast in the unstilted Cyclades,
　　Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks
　　Faced by the snarled and yelping seas.
　　
　　Display me Aeolus above
　　Reviewing the insurgent gales
　　Which tangle Ariadne's hair
　　And swell with haste the perjured sails.
　　
　　Morning stirs the feet and hands
　　(Nausicaa and Polypheme),
　　Gesture of orang-outang
　　Rises from the sheets in steam.
　　
　　This withered root of knots of hair
　　Slitted below and gashed with eyes,
　　This oval O cropped out with teeth:
　　The sickle motion from the thighs
　　
　　Jackknifes upward at the knees
　　Then straightens out from heel to hip
　　Pushing the framework of the bed
　　And clawing at the pillow slip.
　　
　　Sweeney addressed full length to shave
　　Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,
　　Knows the female temperament
　　And wipes the suds around his face.
　　
　　(The lengthened shadow of a man
　　Is history, said Emerson
　　Who had not seen the silhouette
　　Of Sweeney straddled in the sun).
　　
　　Tests the razor on his leg
　　Waiting until the shriek subsides.
　　The epileptic on the bed
　　Curves backward, clutching at her sides.
　　
　　The ladies of the corridor
　　Find themselves involved, disgraced,
　　Call witness to their principles
　　And deprecate the lack of taste
　　
　　Observing that hysteria
　　Might easily be misunderstood;
　　Mrs. Turner intimates
　　It does the house no sort of good.
　　
　　But Doris, towelled from the bath,
　　Enters padding on broad feet,
　　Bringing sal volatile
　　And a glass of brandy neat.

　　After 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
　　
　　Here is no water but only rock
　　Rock and no water and the sandy road
　　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 mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
　　Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
　　There is not even silence in the mountains
　　But dry sterile thunder without rain
　　There is not even solitude in the mountains
　　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
　　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
　　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
　　But when I look ahead up the white road
　　There is always another one walking beside 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?
　　
　　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
　　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
　　And fiddled whisper music on those strings
　　And bats with baby faces in the violet light
　　Whistled, and beat their wings
　　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.
　　It has no windows, and the door swings,
　　Dry bones can harm no one.
　　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
　　Datta: what have we given?
　　My friend, blood shaking my heart
　　The awful daring of a moment's surrender
　　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
　　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
　　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
　　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
　　
　　Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
　　Quando fiam ceu chelidon - O swallow swallow
　　Le Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie
　　
　　These fragments I have shored against my ruins
　　Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
　　Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
　　
　　Shantih shantih shantih

　　Webster was much possessed by death
　　And saw the skull beneath the skin;
　　And breastless creatures under ground
　　Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
　　
　　Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
　　Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
　　He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
　　Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
　　
　　Donne, I suppose, was such another
　　Who found no substitute for sense;
　　To seize and clutch and penetrate,
　　Expert beyond experience,
　　
　　He knew the anguish of the marrow
　　The ague of the skeleton;
　　No contact possible to flesh
　　Allayed the fever of the bone.
　　.....
　　Grishkin is nice: her
　　Russian eye is underlined for emphasis;
　　Uncorseted, her friendly bust
　　Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
　　
　　The couched Brazilian jaguar
　　Compels the scampering marmoset
　　With subtle effluence of cat;
　　Grishkin has a maisonette;
　　
　　The sleek Brazilian jaguar
　　Does not in its arboreal gloom
　　Distil so rank a feline smell
　　As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
　　
　　And even the Abstract Entities
　　Circumambulate her charm;
　　But our lot crawls between dry ribs
　　To keep our metaphysics warm.

　　ILS ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent à Terre Haute;
　　Mais une nuit d’été, les voici à Ravenne,
　　A l’aise entre deux draps, chez deux centaines de punaises;
　　La sueur aestivale, et une forte odeur de chienne.
　　Ils restent sur le dos écartant les genoux 5
　　De quatre jambes molles tout gonflées de morsures.
　　On relève le drap pour mieux égratigner.
　　Moins d’une lieue d’ici est Saint Apollinaire
　　In Classe, basilique connue des amateurs
　　De chapitaux d’acanthe que tournoie le vent. 10
　　
　　Ils vont prendre le train de huit heures
　　Prolonger leurs misères de Padoue à Milan
　　Ou se trouvent la Cène, et un restaurant pas cher.
　　Lui pense aux pourboires, et redige son bilan.
　　Ils auront vu la Suisse et traversé la France. 15
　　Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascétique,
　　Vieille usine désaffectée de Dieu, tient encore
　　Dans ses pierres ècroulantes la forme precise de Byzance.

　　EN Amerique, professeur;
　　En Angleterre, journaliste;
　　C’est à grands pas et en sueur
　　Que vous suivrez à peine ma piste.
　　En Yorkshire, conferencier; 5
　　A Londres, un peu banquier,
　　Vous me paierez bein la tête.
　　C’est à Paris que je me coiffe
　　Casque noir de jemenfoutiste.
　　En Allemagne, philosophe 10
　　Surexcité par Emporheben
　　Au grand air de Bergsteigleben;
　　J’erre toujours de-ci de-là
　　A divers coups de tra la la
　　De Damas jusqu’à Omaha. 15
　　Je celebrai mon jour de fête
　　Dans une oasis d’Afrique
　　Vêtu d’une peau de girafe.
　　
　　On montrera mon cénotaphe
　　Aux côtes brûlantes de Mozambique. 20

　　MALHEUR à la malheureuse Tamise!
　　Qui coule si pres du Spectateur.
　　Le directeur
　　Conservateur
　　Du Spectateur 5
　　Empeste la brise.
　　Les actionnaires
　　Réactionnaires
　　Du Spectateur
　　Conservateur 10
　　Bras dessus bras dessous
　　Font des tours
　　A pas de loup.
　　Dans un égout
　　Une petite fille 15
　　En guenilles
　　Camarde
　　Regarde
　　Le directeur
　　Du Spectateur 20
　　Conservateur
　　Et crève d’amour.

　　LE garcon délabré qui n’a rien à faire
　　Que de se gratter les doigts et se pencher sur mon épaule:
　　 “Dans mon pays il fera temps pluvieux,
　　 Du vent, du grand soleil, et de la pluie;
　　 C’est ce qu’on appelle le jour de lessive des gueux.” 5
　　(Bavard, baveux, à la croupe arrondie,
　　Je te prie, au moins, ne bave pas dans la soupe).
　　 “Les saules trempés, et des bourgeons sur les ronces—
　　 C’est là, dans une averse, qu’on s’abrite.
　　J’avais sept ans, elle était plus petite. 10
　　 Elle etait toute mouillée, je lui ai donné des primavères.”
　　Les tâches de son gilet montent au chiffre de trente-huit.
　　 “Je la chatouillais, pour la faire rire.
　　 J’éprouvais un instant de puissance et de délire.
　　
　　 Mais alors, vieux lubrique, à cet âge… 15
　　“Monsieur, le fait est dur.
　　 Il est venu, nous peloter, un gros chien;
　　 Moi j’avais peur, je l’ai quittée à mi-chemin.
　　 C’est dommage.”
　　
　　 Mais alors, tu as ton vautour! 20
　　
　　Va t’en te décrotter les rides du visage;
　　Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne.
　　De quel droit payes-tu des expériences comme moi?
　　Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bains.
　　
　　Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé, 25
　　Oubliait les cris des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille,
　　Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d’etain:
　　Un courant de sous-mer l’emporta tres loin,
　　Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure.
　　Figurez-vous donc, c’etait un sort penible; 30
　　Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille.

——哦姑娘你叫什么……
站在楼梯顶的平台上——
靠着花盆——
织啊，在你的头发里编织阳光——
痛苦而惊奇，你把花抓起
扔到地上，转过身
眼中含着难以猜透的怒意，
但是织啊，在你的头发里编织阳光。
因此我但愿他走开，
因此我但愿她站着忧伤，
因此他但愿自己不在
好象灵魂离开遍体鳞伤的肉体，
好象理智把用旧的肉体抛弃。
我得找到
一种方法，无比轻捷巧妙，
一种方法，我俩都能理解，
简单，不确定，象握手，象微笑。
她转身走了，但随着这夏日天气，
好多天，追逼我的想象，
好多天，好多时光：
她臂上披着头发，手里抱着鲜花，
我真不明白他们怎能在一起！
怕是我丢失了一个姿态，一个手势。
有时这些想法仍然能惊起
苦恼的午夜与安宁的正午。

白月光菊向飞蛾绽开花瓣，
薄雾从海面上慢慢地爬来，
一只白色的巨鸟－－羽毛似雪的枭
从白桤树枝上悄悄飞下。
爱呵，你手中捧着的花朵
比海面上的薄雾更洁白，
难道你没有鲜艳的热带花朵——
紫色的生命，给我吗？