by T. S. Eliot<\/p>\n
I. The Burial of the Dead<\/p>\n
April is the cruellest month, breeding
\nLilacs out of the dead land, mixing
\nMemory and desire, stirring
\nDull roots with spring rain.
\nWinter kept us warm, covering
\nEarth in forgetful snow, feeding
\nA little life with dried tubers.
\nSummer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
\nWith a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
\nAnd went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
\nAnd drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
\nBin gar kine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
\nAnd when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
\nMy cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
\nAnd I was frightened. He said, Marie,
\nMarie, hold on tight. And down we went.
\nIn the mountains, there you feel free.
\nI read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.<\/p>\n
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
\nOut of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
\nYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only
\nA heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
\nAnd the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
\nAnd the dry stone no sound of water. Only
\nThere is shadow under this red rock,
\n(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
\nAnd I will show you something different from either
\nYour shadow at morning striding behind you
\nOr your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
\nI will show you fear in a handful of dust.
\n Frisch weht der Wind
\n <\/em>Der Heimat zu,
\n <\/em>Mein Irisch Kind,
\n <\/em>Wo weilest du? <\/em>
\n“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
\n“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
\n\u2013Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
\nYour arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
\nSpeak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
\nLiving nor dead, and I knew nothing,
\nLooking into the heart of light, the silence.
\n Oed’ und leer das Meer<\/em>.<\/p>\n