T. S. Eliot: Collected Poems, 1909-1962 (The Centenary by T. S. Eliot

By T. S. Eliot

There isn't any extra authoritative selection of the poetry that Eliot himself needed to maintain than this quantity, released years earlier than his loss of life in 1965.

Poet, dramatist, critic, and editor, T. S. Eliot used to be one of many defining figures of twentieth-century poetry. This variation of Collected Poems 1909-1962 comprises The Love track of J. Alfred Prufrock along with Four Quartets, The Waste Land, and a number of different poems.

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Extra info for T. S. Eliot: Collected Poems, 1909-1962 (The Centenary Edition)

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No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous – Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; The worlds revolve like ancient women Gathering fuel in vacant lots. Rhapsody on a Windy Night Twelve o’clock. Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions. Every street-lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium. Half-past one, The street-lamp sputtered, The street-lamp muttered, The street-lamp said, ‘Regard that woman Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin.

II. A Game of Chess The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines 80 From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (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; 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 90 That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.

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