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النص الاصلي

The Waste Land

T.S. Eliot

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers
A Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch
And when we were children, staying at the archduke'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
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man
ou cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats
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
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
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind
You gave me hyacinths first a year ago
They called me the hyacinth girl
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing
Looking into the heart of light, the silence
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante