PoemsbyTSEliot.docVIP

A Cooking Egg by T. S. Eliot En l’an trentiesme do mon aageQue toutes mes hontes j’ay beues...PIPIT sate upright in her chairSome distance from where I was sitting;Views of the Oxford CollegesLay on the table, with the knitting.Daguerreotypes and silhouettes,Here grandfather and great great aunts,Supported on the mantelpieceAn Invitation to the Dance.. . . . .I shall not want Honour in HeavenFor I shall meet Sir Philip SidneyAnd have talk with CoriolanusAnd other heroes of that kidney.I shall not want Capital in HeavenFor I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.We two shall lie together, laptIn a five per cent. Exchequer Bond.I shall not want Society in Heaven,Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride;Her anecdotes will be more amusingThan Pipit’s experience could provide.I shall not want Pipit in Heaven:Madame Blavatsky will instruct meIn the Seven Sacred Trances;Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.. . . . .But where is the penny world I boughtTo eat with Pipit behind the screen?The red-eyed scavengers are creepingFrom Kentish Town and Golder’s Green;Where are the eagles and the trumpets?Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.Over buttered scones and crumpetsWeeping, weeping multitudesDroop in a hundred A.B.C.’s. Ash Wednesday by T. S. Eliot IBecause I do not hope to turn againBecause I do not hopeBecause I do not hope to turnDesiring this mans gift and that mans scopeI no longer strive to strive towards such things(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)Why should I mournThe vanished power of the usual reign?Because I do not hope to knowThe infirm glory of the positive hourBecause I do not thinkBecause I know I shall not knowThe one veritable transitory powerBecause I cannot drinkThere, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there isnothing againBecause I know that time is always timeAnd place is always and only placeAnd what is actual is actual only for one timeAnd only for one placeI rejoice that things a