Level 2.3

Four Preludes by T. S. Eliot < >

Preludes II and IV by T. S. Eliot

  II

            The morning comes to consciousness

            Of faint stale smells of beer

            From the sawdust-trampled street

            With all its muddy feet that press

            To early coffee-stands.

            With the other masquerades

            That time resumes,

            One thinks of all the hands

            That are raising dingy shades

            In a thousand furnished rooms.

  IV

            His soul stretched tight across the skies

            That fade behind a city block,

            Or trampled by insistent feet

            At four and five and six o’clock;

            And short square fingers stuffing pipes,

            And evening newspapers, and eyes

            Assured of certain certainties,

            The conscience of a blackened street

            Impatient to assume the world.

            I am moved by fancies that are curled

            Around these images, and cling:

            The notion of some infinitely gentle

            Infinitely suffering thing.

            Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;

            The worlds revolve like ancient women

            Gathering fuel in vacant lots.