April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’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. 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,
Son of man. You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, 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.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “They called me the hyacinth girl.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe.
Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!
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.